Do We Take Prisoners?
by Slowcoach Campbell
Summary: The story, in his own words, of a clone officer taken prisoner by the Confederacy. Captain Hawk of the 501st, a secretly defective coward, is captured on Felucia and sent to a Sep prison camp. Little does he know that for him the war is far from over!
1. Introduction

**Do We Take Prisoners?**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Introduction**

* * *

**Author's Notes:** This is my fourth story in my _Cowardly Clone_ series (see also _Getting Carried Away by __Geonosians_, _The Bounty Hunters Trap _and _A Coward in the Temple_).

**Introduction:** Do we take prisoners? The question asked by one battle droid to another after retaking the control centre of the Rishi moon outpost during the episode _Rookies_. As it happens most Separatist commanders do. Here follows the POW experiences of clone Captain Hawk of the 501st Legion. Being a defective coward he would like nothing better than to be allowed to sit out the rest of the war in peace and quiet. However it seems that once again some higher power is at work and, far from a peaceful stint in prison, Hawk finds himself pitched into a steaming cesspit of deceit, explosions, piracy, blaster fire and high treason! His near supernatural abilities for sliding out of trouble, dodging his duty and avoiding an untimely demise will be put to the ultimate test!

**Back-story:** Formerly sergeant, now captain, Hawk of the 501st legion is an extremely unusual clone. He is defective; a liar, a coward and a disgrace to the Grand Army of the Republic. He should have been disposed of by the Kaminoans soon after birth, and would have been, if it was not for a talent for concealing his true personality. In spite of his loathing for combat and battle he has earned a reputation as a hero of the Republic and great respect from the Jedi Order. Captain Hawk lives in constant fear that his secret will be discovered and that he will one day be revealed as the fraud that he is. His only hope is to continue to play the part of the brave hero and hope for the best.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Star Wars_; the character of Captain Hawk was inspired by George McDonald Fraser's character of Harry Flashman, of the _Flashman Papers_.

Once again please review. I always enjoy reading your comments and feedback, and usually try to reply to them.


	2. Capture on Felucia

**Chapter 2: Capture on Felucia **

* * *

Death before dishonour, no surrender, not one step back, fight to the last man, die for the Republic, lay down your lives for the Empire! At one time or another, during twenty five years of reluctant military service, I've had all of the above idiotic and suicidal battle cries bellowed in my ear. Generally by someone who is speaking into a communicator, whilst sitting in a command bunker several miles behind me, drinking a mug of stim-tea and thinking "_wars hell_". Many of my commanders and comrades over the years seemed to have got it into their heads that there was no such thing as surrendering to the clankers (or later the rebels). I expect that the historical dramas you may have seen on the holovids have probably given you the same idea. Well let me tell you that given the choice between the certain death of fighting to the last gasp and the near certain death of throwing myself on the tender mercies of some super battle droid, perfectly capable of crushing my skull like a rotten egg, I'll take the droid every time!

As it happens I've been obliged to make the decision of whether to run, hide, surrender or (Force help me!) fight, on numerous occasions. I have generally opted for either the first or the second option, as you can by no means be certain that the snarling rebel, bearing down on you, his DH-17 rifle spewing blaster bolts and screaming blue murder, is in any mood to listen to your shrikes for mercy (as you may have guessed I am writing with a specific incident in mind). As for fighting my way out of the jaws of death, well I've done that more times than I care to mention! Often quite literally in the case of wampas, reanimated genosians, rancors and on one occasion an acklay. Speaking of arguably the vilest inhabitants of that hideous jungle planet Felucia, it was on that swamp world of flies and fever that I was for the first time taken prisoner (officially anyway, I don't count Geonosis).

* * *

As I look back over the first two paragraphs of this latest attempt create something that resembles a coherent account of a colourful episode in my eventful career, I am forced to admit that they read rather badly. However, after some fretting, I've decided to let them stand as they are. If they sound to you like the ramblings of an old man, well there's a good reason for that! Looking back on events from retirement it's often easy to allow one's mind wander; and besides, I've never been much good at introductions. Let us simply get to the matter at hand; namely how I came to be a prisoner of war, and the events that took place during and after my period of captivity. I suppose a little background information is necessary however. In a nutshell the Separatists, under dear old General Grievous, has that Force-forsaken lump of marsh mud Felucia firmly in their iron grasp and therefore the Jedi, in their divine wisdom, decide to launch an invasion to wrestle it back. The expeditionary force was under the command of Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker and Ahsoka Tano, which of course meant the 501st and 212th Legions were the poor sods tasked with clearing out hells back garden.

Naturally the campaign was a complete, unmitigated disaster from the word go. Grievous once again proved himself to be a first rate military strategist and the Confederacy demonstrated that, when you're fighting on a planet where every gulp of putrid air you breath and every drop of filthy water you drink carries with it dysentery, malaria, yellow fever and much worse, it pays to field troops which are contemptuously immune to such petty mortal weaknesses as disease. I myself came down with a case of malaria that was very nearly the end of me (they go in for mosquitoes the size of your damn hand on that dratted world you know) and by the time of the final action of the First Battle of Felucia I had only sufficiently recovered to be fit for light duties. Usually this would have meant that I ended up shuffling datapads in a nice safe command post somewhere, but as it was all hands to the pumps, I was allocated the unenviable task of being one the gunners of a Juggernaut tank.

Now, although I've fought in my fair share of space battles and been behind the controls of some pretty serious armoured fighting vehicles in my time, I'm an infantryman at heart. This isn't because I enjoy facing down droidekas, spider droids and all the other horrors of the battlefield with nothing more than a blaster pistol and a prayer, but simply because I prefer it to the alternative. You see to my way of thinking tanks, even with all their armour and firepower, equal just one thing; fire magnets. If I had a credit for every time I've seen some lumbering AT-TE burst into flames and explode like a firework factory I'd be a very rich clone indeed. But as I didn't have a choice in the matter I bowed to the inevitable and at least took solace in the fact that I would be able to spend the battle snug behind five inches of thermally resistant armour plating (hoping that a well placed rocket wasn't about to turn my shelter into a pile of blazing scrap). You can therefore imagine the strength of my feelings when I discovered that the turret I would be manning was not to be one of the relatively safe internal ones, but instead the roof mounted anti-personal cannon above the driving compartment. I couldn't have been a bigger target if I'd painted myself turquoise and danced whilst whistling '_May the Force Save the Republic'_!

* * *

So there I was, hunkered down behind the heavy blaster that was my charge and trying to keep as much of myself behind the weapon, and out of way of the hailstorm of incoming fire, as possible. Beside me, on the roof of the turbo tank, weaving a complex defensive pattern with her lightsaber, stood my commander; the Jedi Padawan Ahsoka Tano. She had been assigned the task of leading a recon patrol into the jungle, although whether to discover the location of the Separatists main force or to try to find a way out of the death trap we found ourselves in, I really have no idea (although knowing my old commanders I expect the former). Generally I was not averse to being so close to the Padawan, especially when one of her most appealing features was essentially at my eye level, and it just goes to show how rattled I was that I didn't even think to leer at my young commander's derrière. Slashing with her lightsaber left and right, the green blade frequently passing within a hairs breadth of my head she laughed "finally, a proper battle! I was getting so sick of all that skirmishing and sneaking about! This is more like it, eh Hawk?"

"Will you watch what you're doing with that glow-stick, Force damn it?" I bellowed in terror, ducking instinctively (although _probably_ unnecessarily) as the weapon hissed over my helmet for the hundredth time in the last few minutes. Luckily for me my screams of fright were drowned out by a deafening explosion that ripped though the air as one of our armoured vehicles went up in flames.

When my ears had stopped ringing I, and apparently Ahsoka, simultaneously became aware of a voice issuing from her wrist communicator. "Ahsoka, what is your location?" Even over the tide of battle I recognized the voice as that of the general of the 212th, Obi-Wan Kenobi; he of the always wise and consequently highly irritating advice.

After athletically dodging a dozen or so blaster bolts she shouted into her communicator "about six clicks east master. We've engaged the enemy and we've got them on the run!" a statement which was both a gross inaccuracy and displayed a level of optimism which bordered on clinical insanity. Sitting where I was, blazing away for all I was worth at wave after wave of oncoming battle droids, backed up by AAT tanks, I felt considerably less sanguine about our position.

You can imagine the flood of relief that I experienced when I made out Kenobi saying determinedly "they're here to extract us, we're leaving". He was referring to the long awaited relief force under Jedi General Plo Koon, which most of us had long since given up hope of ever being able to break through the Sep blockade.

"Wh...What!" exclaimed a mortified Ahsoka "We can't retreat now master, I've broken through! They're calling the retreat!" Although I couldn't make out Kenobi's rejoinder to my commander's fatuous interpretation of the situation I can guess the gist of it, as she shouted "Master Skywalker told me never to let up when the tinnies are on the run!" If the girl wanted to indulge in her fantasy of victory she was welcome to it, but I wasn't going to stick around to say _I told you so_. When our transport arrived it would be the infantry grunts that would be nearest to, and therefore first into, the LAATs. Well Hawk my lad, I said to myself, it's time to be off.

Suddenly I slumped over the controls for the heavy blaster and started groaning in acute agony. Ahsoka broke off her argument with her senior officer to duck down beside me, a worried expression immediately replacing the look of frustration that had been occupying her angelic features moments before. "Hawk are you alright? Are you hit?"

"The fever..." I moaned pathetically "its b-back". Looking up I managed to croak "but I can still f-fight, I can..."

"No" exclaimed Ahsoka at once, just as I had known she would, "get inside and find a medic. You" this shouted to another trooper who had just climbed out of the turbo tank's hatch "take over".

Theatrically I crawled, protesting feebly, out of my gunner's chair and towards the trap door my replacement had just emerged from. I managed weakly to clamber down the ladder and found myself in a narrow and deserted metal corridor. An observer would no doubt have been surprised when the clone, who but moments before had been doubled up in pain and clutching the wall for support, straighten himself and then sprinted towards the nearest exterior exit. I passed no one during my bid for freedom and soon found myself swinging open a thick steel hatch, dropping a few feet to the soft marshy earth of Felucia and then taking stock of my bearings.

Having already lost several vehicles are scout convoy was reduced to just two AT-TEs and of course the towering Juggernaut. Are infantry were keeping in well behind the tanks, utilising them for cover and advancing cautiously in their wakes. Realizing that I was somewhat exposed I immediately began to run past the thundering wheels of the Juggernaut, each higher than I was tall, towards the rear of the vehicle and the relative safety that it offered. I was almost there when my luck, which had held firm thus far, ran out. A blaster bolt hissed past my ear, missing me by inches, closely followed by a second. This time the shooter found his mark. The energy projectile just nicked the side of my helmet, only inflicting a minor scar on an already much abused piece of armour. But the force of the impact was nevertheless sufficient to knock me off my feet, crashing to the ground as if I'd been punched by a gamorrean. My head swimming I lay in the thick undergrowth, my vision blurring and unable to do anything more energetic than groan.

I don't know how long I lay there; dully aware of the rumble of the Juggernaut and the steady pounding of the AT-TEs reverberating through the ground beneath me, but it cannot have been for more than a minute or two. Suddenly, even in my shell-shocked state, I became aware of a new noise, a dull throbbing murmur in the air. The vibrations from the tanks had stopped and I became aware of distant shouting. Pushing myself up on one elbow I tried to see what was going on and at first failed to comprehend the scene before me. Sure enough the small armoured column had ground to a halt, the vehicles path blocked by...what? Had a line of trucks appeared out of nowhere, or had the Separatist somehow built a barricade to slow the advance? Suddenly, with a thrill of horror that turned my guts to lead and cleared by head quicker that a freezing shower, I realized what I was seeing. Kenobi had arrived to airlift our forces to safety.

Even as I watched I could see clones and a small red figure who had to be Ahsoka running towards the waiting doors of the transports. Struggling to my feet I forced myself to sprit towards the LAATs, my head pounding and my heart thrashing about in my throat. The irony of the situation was horribly plain to see, although I didn't stop to contemplate it at the time. If I'd been a brave bloody hero like Rex I'd be sitting snugly in a drop ship, whereas, thanks to my own cowardice, here I was running like hell and praying to the Force to save my unworthy hide. I was barely half way to the Larties when I heard a sound that chilled my very marrow and elicited a petrified scream. The dull roar of the crafts engines firing up and launching them skywards. In a matter of seconds they were circling over head and I was left hopelessly trapped.

* * *

"Come back here you bastards!" I shrieked, almost as furious as I was terrified "come back you..." the tirade of profanity that I was about to unleash, the like of which this galaxy or any other has never before seen, was silenced by a monumental explosion. Without the suppressing fire of our heavy weapons the Separatists were able to turn their full fury on our tanks and did so without delay. The Juggernaut blew up with such ferocity that the resulting shock wave smashed both our AT-TEs off their sturdy legs and picked yours truly up like a rag doll and flung me bodily a hundred yards through the air.

Even with my body armour and the soft spongy soil of Felucia, it's a miracle that I didn't break every bone in my body. As it happened I received nothing more serious or permanent than a ringing head ache and a remarkable collection of bruises. If I'd been shell-shocked before, it was nothing to how I felt now. The whole world seemed to swim before my eyes and my vision darkened to such an extent that I felt certain that I was about to black out. Partly because of my condition and partly because of the aforementioned soft earth of the planet I didn't notice the approaching footsteps until suddenly I found myself looking up into the expressionless faceplates of what seemed like hundreds of battle droids. As I lay there on my back, starring down the barrels of a dozen E-5 blaster rifles, I knew with an absolute certainty that I've rarely experienced the like of that I was about to die. Generally there's some chance, some harebrained gamble that you can take in a forlorn hope of extending your life for a few more blissful seconds. But there's no arguing with a volley of blaster bolts at point blank range.

Shutting my eyes and gritting my teeth, I lay and awaited the hail of fiery death about to descend upon me. Silently I cursed which ever bloody Kaminoan had fished me out of a test tube back on Kamino all those years ago and doomed me to a life of war. Suddenly, as if from a great distance away, I heard through my still ringing ears a droid ask one of its comrades "_err do we take prisoners_?"

"_I don't know, perhaps we should ask the lieutenant_" answered one of the robotic soldiers, in the slightly confused tone so common to battle droids.

Before I was even able to begin to digest the hope inspiring conversation being held over my prostrate form the ranks of droids surrounding me parted and a figure stepped into my blurred, but rapidly clearing, vision. He was a Neimoidian, a few inches shorter than I was, wearing a bronze breastplate over grey-blue combat fatigues, a bronze cabasset helmet and wielding a Separatist SE-14 blaster pistol. "What's going on here?" he asked in a curt, efficient voice.

"_Lieutenant Drazil, one of the clones is still alive. Should we kill him_?" asked one of the interchangeable droids above me.

Even as I was about to squeak a plea for mercy Lieutenant Drazil, and I never met a finer officer in all my days, answered "of course not! He is a prisoner of war; he shall be handed over to the proper authorities for incarceration". Turning to me he asked "clone; what is your name, rank and number?"

With a titanic effort I managed to struggle to my feet and with an equally astonishing exertion succeeded in not throwing up all over my saviour's boots. "M-my name is Hawk, my rank captain and my number is CC-7713" I stammered.

Extending a dark green leather glove towards me (or looking back now I suppose it may have been his skin, it's hard to tell with Neimoidians) he said firmly, but politely "your pistol please captain, and any other weapons you may be carrying". If I'd been a death or glory chap like Cody or Rex I would probably have chosen that moment to try to shoot my way out, or at the very least not handed over the combat knife I keep hidden behind my breastplate. However I'm definitely no hero and I had no wish to sour my captor's opinion of me by trying to sneak a weapon past them, so I immediately did as the Neimoidian asked.

Taking my DC-17 blaster and knife Lieutenant Drazil stowed them in a pouch in his fatigues, looked me in the eye and then said "Captain Hawk, for you the war is over".

Force; if only he'd been right!

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I hope you enjoyed reading the first chapter of this fic, I enjoyed writing it. By the way, in case anyone is wondering, a cabasset helmet (the helmet worn by the Neimoidian officer) is actually the name of a real helmet popular in Italy during the Renaissance. I used the name because I felt that it best describes the design of the helmets worn by soldiers of the Neimoidian Gunnery Battalion.


	3. The Prison Camp

**Chapter 3: The Prison Camp **

* * *

Before I continue with my account of my capture I suppose that I should, briefly, enlighten my readers as to the collective fates of Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Ahsoka Tano, Captain Rex, Commander Cody and what remained of the combined 501st and 212th Legions. Well my good-for-nothing '_friends and comrades_' were successfully whisked off Felucia, by Plo Koon and his lads, and then the entire flotilla fled back to Republic space, its tail set firmly between its legs. The Jedi Council didn't take the news of the disaster well and decided on a full enquiry. Looking for a scapegoat, if you ask me, they proceeded to throw the book at Ahsoka and she ended up being assigned to Archive guard duty (something I'd have given my right hand for!). I expect you've heard how that turned out. I believe the Jedi refer to the incident as the Holocron Incident, but most of us remember it by the rather more snappy title it received from the boys at HoloNet News; the _Holocron Heist_. Now after that, I suppose, necessary aside, let us continue with the matter at hand.

* * *

I was frogmarched a short way to a waiting Separatist MAF gunship, forced into a seat and then handcuffed firmly into place. The small armoured troop carrier flew my captors and I to a bustling deployment zone; a vast area cleared of trees and undergrowth for over a mile in every direction. There thousands of battle droids and their larger more robust cousins stood like living statues or clanked about on errands of their own, Vulture droids either stalked around the clearing, for all the world like overgrown spiders, or zoomed overhead, heavy tanks and imposing armoured troop transports were lined up in neat rows, and finally, towering over all of us, stood a mighty C-9979 landing craft. And this, mark you, was only a small fragment of the titanic Separatist army on Felucia.

It may sound odd but, in a way, being surrounded by so much military activity and hardware was almost comforting. I suppose being a prisoner of war was such a strange and unwelcome sensation that my subconscious was desperate to latch onto anything normal, and the hustle and bustle around me was reassuring familiar. I was snapped out of my thoughts when the Neimoidian Lieutenant Drazil appeared beside me, motioned for me to stand and then said "follow me captain". I was escorted, weaving my way between battle droids, towards the landing craft itself. At first I thought we were heading directly for the ships deployment ramp, but just before we reached it Drazil turned aside and led the way towards a corrugated durasteel sheet hut, guarded by a pair of droid commandos. Saluting me politely the Neimoidian indicated the door. "If you will step inside Captain Hawk; you will not be here for long I assure you".

Returning Drazil's salute I stepped through the low door and found myself in a stuffy, fairly dark enclosure. It took my eyes a moment to adapt to the gloom but when I could see again I perceived that the room in which I stood was already occupied by twenty or so of my fellow clones. Around two thirds of the men had the orange markings on their armour that distinguished them as being from the 212th, whilst the remaining third bore the distinctive blue of the 501st. I remember briefly feeling an uncharacteristic surge of unit pride. Clearly the soldiers of my own legion were both the braver and more suicidally stupid of the two. All eyes turned towards me and I was immediately surrounded by every man capable of walking, which was only just over half of them. With most clones, obviously not including myself, the only way you can capture one is by either wounding him so badly that he can't stop you or by knocking him unconscious. Shouldering his way to the front I was saluted by a corporal of the 501st. "Captain Hawk sir, is it really you? What's happening out there?"

Dredging the man's name up from the dark recesses of my memory I answered him. "I fear, Corporal Whistler, that we may have lost this round. Both are legion and the 212th have been airlifted to the waiting fleet, which has in turn retreated".

The corporal lived up to his nickname by doing an amazed whistle, whilst one of the clones from the 212th swore and kicked the wall of our temporary prison to relieve his feelings. "So we're stuck here then? Prisoners of the bloody clankers!" he demanded angrily.

"It would seem so" I agreed.

Suddenly the light of an idea flashed into the eyes of Corporal Whistler "should we make a break for it sir? Some of us are still able to put up a fight and with you to lead us..."

"No!" I answered quickly, before going on to add to the crestfallen and disappointed clone "I'd like nothing better than to break out of this hut and try to force our way through these damn droids to freedom. What's more, with you gallant troopers at my back, I'm sure we would give a good account of ourselves". At this compliment all the soldiers around me visibly swelled with pride upon hearing that the _heroic_ Captain Hawk had such faith in them. "However it is impossible. We could never hope to break through the Seps and carry those who are wounded amongst us to safety".

"Of course sir, you're right. I hadn't thought of...thank you sir" said Whistler, nodding vigorously, whilst still looking slightly forlorn that I hadn't given him the green light to get himself messily killed. As soon as I mentioned the wounded I knew none of my brothers would try a thing. Never leaving a man behind was just about the most important thing there was to a clone, second only to fighting for the Republic. Slightly ironic considering that that was exactly what had happened to the lot of us in that shack, but there you are.

Before any of us could say another word the door opened and the commando droids I had noticed earlier advanced into the room, taking up flanking positions on either side of the entrance. They were followed by two Neimoidians; the first was Lieutenant Drazil; the second was a tall, thin individual, wearing the long robes and flat-topped hat common to figures of authority amongst his kind. The robed Neimoidian cast his orange eyes around at us and then turned to look at Drazil. "How many are there lieutenant?"

"Twenty two, captain" answered Drazil at once.

Nodding the captain said "that will be no problem; such as small number of prisoners will be easily accommodated aboard my ship". Turning to us he said loudly and clearly "I am Captain Dron Nemalis. You shall all be in my charge during your transportation to your allocated containment camp. I am a reasonable man and if you do nothing to provoke my displeasure we shall have no cause to quarrel".

I noticed several of my comrades balling their hands into fists, clearing resisting with difficulty their built in programming to attack enemies of the Republic whenever possible. As I have no such programming and a healthy desire to keep my skin intact I stepped forward and said "we shall give you no trouble Captain Nemalis. We will prepare to leave whenever you give the word". Just to remind my fellow clones why (supposedly) I was going along with the Separatists I added "some of our company are injured, would it be possible for us to be supplied with stretchers to carry them to your ship?"

"I shall see to it at once" Captain Nemalis said, nodding to Lieutenant Drazil and thereby preserving the age old tradition of passing undesirable tasks down the chain of command. I expect that Drazil, in turn, passed on my request for stretchers until, eventually, it landed upon someone so completely lacking in authority that they had to actually perform the task. Within less than half an hour (quite speedy really, when you consider that droids have no need for stretchers to carry away their fallen comrades and therefore must have had to rifle through the Republic's own abandoned supplies) a dozen or so droids arrived at our shelter and handed over enough stretchers to easily transport those immobilized amongst us. When we were at last ready to move out we were escorted by a squad of towering super battle droids to the broad access ramp of the C-9979.

* * *

As it turned out the goliath landing craft was not in fact the ship of the Neimoidian captain; but only the first step in a tiresome series of stages that took us a ridiculously long time. The C-9979 that we had boarded in turn docked at a colossal _Lucrehulk_-class battleship. Here our escort of super battle droids was exchanged for one standard B1s and Captain Nemalis had to sign what seemed to be a dozen datapads. Apparently the Republic and the Confederacy had at least one thing in common; they both ran on paperwork and red tape. The new battle droids led us through seemingly miles of corridors until at last we arrived in a smaller secondary hanger. Here we found a strangely familiar sight sitting on the landing pad, especially after all the Separatist ships we had seen and travelled on since our captures; a Corellian corvette. These simplistic and multipurpose starships are to be found across the galaxy, fulfilling every conceivable task; military troop transport (as was the case here), civilian private yacht, cargo hauler, passenger cruiser and pirate ship. They can also be found in the service of practically every organization you can think of, so I suppose I shouldn't have been all that surprised to see one in Separatist service. Here, if you'll believe me, Nemalis had to sign yet another stack of datapads, that were stuck under his flat nose by a minor Neimoidian bureaucrat (although what had changed since the last hanger to warrant that much paperwork I haven't the foggiest).

So much for Trade Federation efficiency! At last however our irritating journey was all but over. Boarding the Corellian corvette we flew a short distance to a Banking Clan frigate and disembarked. With a noticeable sigh of relief Captain Nemalis, who it would seem had found the experience as trying as we had, turned to us and said "gentlemen; welcome aboard the CNS _Avarice_".

The journey itself to the planet that was to be our home for the foreseeable future I shall not bother to relate to you. It was not overly long, but nevertheless extremely tedious, Captain Nemalis was as good as his word and treated us well enough, and the food was among the worst I've ever eaten. Over all nothing occurred that was worthy of note, save for the possible exception of a trooper from the 212th emptying his bowl of slop over a battle droid's head and causing it short-circuit (resulting in him spending the rest of the journey locked in the brig). Therefore I shall pick up the narrative again the morning that the _Avarice_ arrived in orbit above the planet of Sta-Lag. This small world was situated deep within Separatist space and was mostly covered with sparse scrubland. It had no native sentient inhabitants and no wild life that was really of any interest that I ever saw. It was however the site of the prison camp that was our destination.

* * *

The other prisoners and I were herded back aboard the Corellian corvette and transported down to the surface of the plant. When we disembarked from the craft we found ourselves facing the gates of the camp. It appeared as one would expect such a place to; a large compound surrounded by high duracrete walls, topped with barbed wire. Every hundred feet or so stood guard towers containing pairs of double-barrelled heavy repeating blasters; one directed into the camps interior, whilst the second faced outward to threaten any external attackers. Visible through the open steel gates of the camp I made out a sprawling complex of low wooden huts, warehouses, supply depots and blockhouses. Mounted on the wall beside the gates, in large iron letters, was the word O'flag; which I took (correctly as it turned out) to be the name of the camp. Upon entering we were directed towards a guard post on the right hand side of the gates, in which Captain Nemalis signed us over and all of us prisoners had to write our names, ranks and numbers into a huge electronic register. Everyone says that the most important thing to Neimoidians is making money. Well I say that you could say the same thing about any number of races in our galaxy. Greed is not the sole province of any one species. However I've never met a people with a great fondness for, no, _obsession_ with, bureaucracy. If you don't have to sign for it a hundred times and it doesn't result in you being given a fistful of receipts, then it's just not worth doing!

When it came to my turn to enter my details into the computer screen the Neimoidian behind the desk glanced down and then looked up at me inquisitively "you are the most senior officer in your party captain?"

"That's right" I said, wondering where this line of questioning was leading.

"Then please report to the warden's office immediately. He will tell you all you need to know and then you may speak to the Senior Republic Officer. He will clear up any points you are still not entirely clear about. You may then explain all you have learnt to your men. These guards will escort you." So saying the lieutenant (by this point I was beginning to learn the rank insignias of the Neimoidian Gunnery Battalion) indicated a pair of battle droids, who immediately stepped forward to flank me.

"_Roger roger_" they said in perfect unison.

As I was lead by my guards through the camp I was, for the first time, able see the other prisoners that were incarcerated at O'flag. There must have been at least three hundred odd troopers from a dozen different legions. I saw the markings and insignia of the 327th, 41st, 127th, 182nd, 442nd and even my own 501st legions, as well as many others. Standing together, conspicuous in there blue armour, I made out a small group of Senate Commandos, although how those high-and-mighty palace guards managed to get themselves captured I have no idea. I even think I glimpsed the tell-tale red battledress of an ARC trooper captain. However of the huge variety of Republic prisoners my eye was drawn towards one group in particular. To judge by their armour, dark green camouflage with a thick red stripe bisecting their helmets, they were all from the same legion. Whereas the others seemed to have been taken in bands, ranging from ones and twos, to tens and twenties, it looked as if over a hundred had been taken from one unit during a single campaign or battle. They must have made up a sizable proportion of the camps convicts. Many of the prisoners were bareheaded and as I passed and looked at the men from the legion in the green camouflage I became aware that something was strangely wrong about them. I don't know if you've ever had the sensation of looking at a quite ordinary picture or scene before you and saying to yourself 'something's odd about this, but what?' Sometimes it's so obvious that it takes you a moment to notice it. This was such an occasion. When at last I realized what had struck me as abnormal about them I couldn't help but start with surprise. Just as with all clones, everyman from the green camouflage legion that I could see shared the same face. What was odd was that the face that they shared was _not_ that of Jango Fett.

* * *

I had no time to dwell on this shocking revelation however, as I was hurried past the milling troopers towards a low duracrete command bunker. I was admitted to the building and then shown into an office, containing a large desk, shelves of holobooks and, seated behind said desk, an old Neimoidian officer. Despite his obvious seniority he did not wear a flowing robe, but instead the same bronze armour over fatigues of his men. In place of a helmet he wore a dark blue kepi, bearing the bronze cap badge of his regiment (a stylized beetle, over a pair of crossed swords). The moment that I appeared in the doorway of his office he immediately walked around his desk, dismissed my guards and proceeded to shake me warmly by the hand (figuratively speaking of course, Neimoidian hands are rarely if ever warm). "Captain Hawk, what a pleasure to meet you in person! Please take a seat, can I offer you a brandy?"

Well as you can imagine I was completely thrown off balance by the welcome I was receiving by a man who was supposed to be enemy, but I decided that I might as well make the most of it. "Thank you, Alderaanian if you have it" I said, sitting down in the comfortable chair facing the desk.

The Neimoidian grimaced sadly "ah I fear not. I haven't been able to acquire any of that variety since...well. Let me just tell you that as soon as this dratted war is over I'm going to buy a whole case full of it! Could I perhaps interest you in some Cassandran?"

I was very pleasantly surprised. "Well of course if you have it. How on Kamino did you get hold of Cassandran brandy, if you don't mind me asking sir?"

The old Neimoidian chuckled and mimed tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially, a gesture that I presume he picked up from a human acquaintance. "There are some perks of being a senior officer in NGB you know". He poured himself and I each a generous glass of the amber liquid, and then resumed his seat opposite me. "How rude of me, allow me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Jarder Lamon, the warden of Camp O'flag. Personally though I prefer the title of commandant; it has a more military ring to it. It allows me to pretend to myself that I'm still a soldier and not a glorified jailer. How do you find the brandy?"

"Excellent" I answered, savouring each mouthful of the fantastic beverage "I haven't tasted anything but that Coruscant rubbish in months".

"Ha!" Colonel Lamon exclaimed "that bilge! Why I wouldn't lubricate a battle droid with it!"

I have to admit that before I met Colonel Lamon I had been feeling extremely nervous. After all Separatist prison wardens don't exactly have a glowing reputation. Names that come to mind include Osi Sobeck and that vicious Zygerrian lunatic Agruss. Thankfully they were exceptions to the rule. Most Sep commandants, and for that matter, in my experience, most Seps in general, were fairly ordinary, straightforward individuals. Psychotic warlords and mass murders like Ventress, Grievous and Savage Opress gave them a bad name they didn't entirely deserve. I'd been half expecting to be confronted by a half-crazed manic with a penchant for firing squads and torture chambers, and here I was sipping an exceptional brandy and talking to a friendly old solider as if I'd known him for years. "Tell me colonel, how did you know my name and why were you so pleased to make my acquaintance? I am only a humble captain after all".

"The officer at the gate sent me a communiqué, containing your name, rank and number. As soon as I read it I knew that it must be _the_ Captain Hawk; the Hero of Geonosis!" So that was it, he'd heard of my inflated and entirely fictional reputation for heroics. Well I must say I was rather taken aback. My fame had spread through the Grand Army, and to some extent the Republic as a whole (nothing to the likes of Skywalker, Rex or Ahsoka of course), however this was the first that I'd heard that the Separatists had got to hear of me. I suppose I was flattered. Leaning across the table towards me, a glint in his large orange eyes, Colonel Lamon asked eagerly "will you tell me the story?"

Well I've never been impartial to the sound of my own voice and with a steady supply of excellent drink on tap I must have talked for over an hour (glossing over my acts of revolting cowardice naturally and modestly underplaying my supposed bravery). When at last I finished he sank back in his chair and whistled in admiration "what an adventure! Undead monsters, dark tunnel fighting miles underground, a damsel in distress and an evil queen. Why it has all the makings of a first class holodrama [A.N: For the full account see _Getting Carried Away by __Geonosians_]! If I was twenty years younger, what I wouldn't have given to have been there". Glancing regretfully at his chronometer he added "but now I fear I have held you up long enough, I expect you have many questions for the Senior Republic Officer Commander Piper".

"But I was told that you would..." I began.

"Me? Force no! I just sign whatever is pushed across my desk. Old Piper will be able to explain all the rules and regulations of this place much better than I can. I'll have a guard show you to his quarters".

* * *

"So Captain Hawk, do you have any further questions?" asked Commander Piper, starring at me through piercing slate-grey eyes. He was fairly old for a clone, if I was any judge (perhaps fifteen or sixteen), and sported a truly immense moustache; something that I had never before seen on a clone. This gave him the appearance of an efficient, serious and highly competent Khormai. Upon meeting the Senior Republic Officer, the mediator between the camp's officials and the prisoners, I immediately realized why Colonel Lamon had left the task of explaining the details about the camp to Piper. The Commander clearly took the camp far more seriously than he did! Rather than list all the tedious do's and don'ts of O'flag, allow me to instead briefly summarize for you the gist of the most pertinent information about the place. It was a typical Separatist establishment; in other words it was a business. Over the course of six months prisoners of war were transported to the planet of Sta-Lag from battlefields all across the sector. At the end of this six month period the POWs were loaded onto a starship, which flew to the nearest boarder with Republic space, where they were exchanged for a large number of credits. It had been going on since the start of the war and was apparently completely official. The Separatists got their credits and the Republic got its clones back. This arrangement had been explained to Piper by the SRO before him in a holovid, which had in turn been explained to him in the same way and so on. The rules themselves were simple enough; no attacking the guards, no escaping, no fighting, no damaging camp property, etcetera etcetera. Things had settled down to such an extent that such things as escape attempts were now extremely rare. After all, if you got out of the camp, were would you go?

"I do have one question sir" I answered, standing at parade rest in front of the commander's desk "when I was entering the camp I noticed a number of clones who appeared to originate from the same legion. They...were unusual, sir".

"Yes..." answered Commander Piper, hesitating, a frown wrinkling his brow. "They are all that's left of the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion. They were all either wiped out or captured during the battle for Yavin IV. They arrived here a few weeks ago. I don't know who the template they are based on was, but he was one tough devil. Not too bright though, most of them. Except perhaps one of the sergeants; none of the officers survived but a couple of the NCOs did. I'm not sure if he's the most senior amongst them, but he's defiantly their leader. They call him Teach".

During the Imperial period it became common practice for the Kaminoans to create clones from a wide variety of different templates and even to mix together the DNA of various candidates to create new ones. However it was much rarer during the early days of the Clone Wars. But occasionally, even back then, those long-necked scientists liked to fool about with alternative concepts, never with the idea of finding a replacement for Jango Fett as the primary template, but simply for the purpose of coming up with prototype, novelty troopers. We were just lab rats to them you see.

Now I can't say why but I didn't overly like the sound of this man Teach. My coward's instincts told me that he sounded like trouble. They'd been wrong before of course, it's just a pity they weren't this time.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** A pretty long chapter that one. I consider splitting it into two, but in then end thought I'd keep it the way it was. The names of the planet and the prison camp, Sta-Lag and O'flag, are based on those of the famous German Second World War camps of Stalag Luft III (the site of the Great Escape) and Oflag IV-C (more commonly known as Colditz Castle).

By the way, to avoid confusion, the Battle of Yavin IV, mentioned by Commander Piper, is naturally not the famous engagement on (or rather above) that forested planet that resulted in the destruction of the Death Star. Like many of the planets and moons of the Star Wars galaxy battles were fought for control of them many times; during both the Republican and Imperial periods.


	4. Unfamiliar Brothers

**Chapter 4: Unfami****liar Brothers**

* * *

Upon leaving the office of Commander Piper I found the group of prisoners from the 212th and 501st Legions that I had arrived with; clustered together and talking amongst themselves. They must have been waiting for me for over an hour whilst I was chatting with the camp commandant and Senior Republic Officer. As soon as I emerged and they caught sight of me I was surrounded by a squad of troopers, eager to hear the news. "What's going on sir, what's the sitrep? Did you meet the clanker boss, what's he like?" asked Corporal Whistler, who once again seemed to have become the _ad hoc_ second in command, after myself, of our little band.

So I filled them in on the situation as I had been instructed to do so, repeating for their benefits the rules of the camp and how long we were likely to be here (the next big exchange was likely to occur in just over a month's time). I finished by summarizing what conclusions I had come to about the character of the commandant. "The warden, Colonel Lamon, struck me as a decent, amiable old warhorse, who would rather sit down with a fine cigar than authorize a mass hanging any day". Upon hearing that the camp commandant wasn't a frothing psychopath Corporal Whistler and a few of the others looked almost disappointed that they weren't going to be given the chance to triumph in the face of hideous adversity. Well as far as I was concerned I was just beginning to realize that being captured by the Separatists might just be the best thing that had happened to me since the first day that I was given the diabolical news that I was going to be dragooned into the army and I had no say in the matter. The way that I saw it was that for a period of just over a month no one was going to try to shoot me, blow me up or stab me. It was going to be the first proper holiday I'd ever had! I've said it before, during earlier instalments of these memoires, but it's quite astonishing how wrong one can be sometimes isn't it?

* * *

From what I saw of them I fancy that the accommodation for the regular troopers at Camp O'flag wasn't exactly the _Hotel__ Manarai_, but they were probably a good deal better than what most of them had been billeted in before they were captured (they were certainly a decided improvement over the filthy, half-rotten tents on Felucia). These were the long low wooden huts I had observed when arriving, probably accommodating about thirty men apiece. However, being a captain, I was of course allocated officers quarters; which meant my own room complete with bed, desk, washbasin, the works. Quite honestly I've paid good credits for worse in motels many times during my life. The food was nothing remarkable, but a site better than the swill we'd been fed aboard the CNS _Avarice_ and, once again, infinitely superior to the rations I'd been forcing down my throat back on Felucia. But of course, some might say, that although I had food, safety and a roof over my head, I was nevertheless lacking the most important thing for human comfort; _freedom_. Well as the freedom in question was the freedom to run the risk of having my head blown off on a daily basis, I thought I could live with that.

Although at first the sensation of being surrounded by battle droids and Neimoidian guardsmen was damn odd, it's amazing how quickly one can get used to anything. An old friend of mine, an ex-Imperial pilot if you want to know, once said to me that "nothing in this galaxy is as short lived as novelty" and by the Force he was right. Within only a few days I had sunk into a comfortable routine as if I'd been there for years, and I was just becoming truly at ease with the situation when trouble suddenly reared its ugly head.

* * *

One afternoon, after a lunch of nutrient paste, a couple of energy pills and a protein shake (all of which could only be called food in the broadest possible sense of the word) I was strolling across one of the quadrangles situated between a couple of the wooden prisoners huts, when I heard my name being called. Turning I at first didn't see the speaker until, with a sinking sensation, I spotted a group of clones from the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion; either sitting on a bench or leaning against the wall of the one of the cabins. Hesitating for a second, I deviated from my chosen course and walked towards them. Commander Piper had been right; it looked to me as if whoever had been the original template for these troopers had been as strong as a wampa, and probably with a similar IQ. They all stood at around 6'5, had thick brow ridges, large flattened noses, rather widely spaced eyes, heavy set jaws and barrel chests. Words such as thugs, grunts and heavies all sprang to mind. The man who had hailed me did not look fundamentally different to his brothers, but I immediately recognized him as Teach. There was something about the eyes, the stance and the easy confident smile spread across the broad expanse of face; they all suggested, if not intelligence, then at least a form of animal cunning that was just as dangerous. "Captain Hawk?" he asked in a guttural voice (pronouncing it as _Capin 'Awk_).

"Yes" I answered "and would I perhaps have the pleasure of addressing Sergeant Teach?"

He grinned "yeah that's right. You heard of me then did you?"

"Commander Piper mentioned your name when I arrived at the camp".

Teach scowled suddenly "Piper? He's soft! Just like the rest of them here! No fight in them no more!" Here he broke off and looked at me again "You that fighter they all talking about aren't you? You killed bugs good and proper or something right?"

I shrugged and whilst doing so happened to glance to the left of Sergeant Teach. The sight of the man I saw was enough to make me freeze, rooted to the spot, and gape in horror. Seeing my eyes fixed upon him, the trooper, who had been seated on the bench and therefore obscured by a few of his comrades until now, got to his feet. His face contorted into an expression that might have been intended as a grin. He stood over eight feet tall and looked as if he could have happily beaten up a regiment of gamorreans and then arm wrestled General Grievous. I would say that I have never seen a man to match him, but in truth the term could barely be applied. His face looked as if it had been badly inflated by a highly pressurised coolant pump, his entire body appeared to be agonizingly misshapen and his arms, one of which was noticeably longer than the other, ended in fists like breeze blocks.

Noting that my attention was no longer on him, Sergeant Teach glanced over his shoulder and then laughed "yeah, he often surprises people when they first see him. This, Hawk, is Corporal Gorax; he got left in the tank a bit too long back on Kamino".

I had heard of clones being left in their tanks a few hours to long before of course. This generally resulted in them being slightly taller than was usual by an inch or two, or other minor abnormalities. But this man must have been left in his tank weeks more than was safe! Had it been some terrible accident or some monstrous experiment on the part of our creators? Surely it could only be the latter; for what other reason would they permit him to live and join a legion. I've always loathed and mistrusted the Kaminoans. He had been presumably named after the hideous giants of Endor, and not without good reason. Losing interest in his leviathan of a corporal Teach returned to the matter at hand "so anyway; you some great hero right?"

Tearing my eyes away from Gorax with difficulty I answered "I've killed a few droids in my time".

"Then you might be the one we've been waiting for" said Teach, with a smile that I wasn't at all keen on. "You see all these here clones have gone soft, forgot what it is to be soldiers. They just want to sit around an wait for the clankers to take them home. But if me and me boys here do something, they'll remember alright!"

"But escaping this camp is pointless, there's nothing beyond these fences, nothing on this whole planet. If you escaped you'd just end up dying out there in the wilderness". I pointed out, wondering if I'd been mistaken about this sergeant being any more intelligent than his men.

Teach grinned "who said we want to escape? No, we aren't' running nowhere, were fighting! We going to take this camp by force! We outnumber them droids and overgrown frogs two to one, there's just one problem".

_One_, I thought incredulously, the whole bloody plan a problem. Technically, being a superior officer, I could have told him so, but I didn't fancy having my teeth smashed out by a pack of bloodthirsty bad batchers like these. Instead I said politely "which is?"

By way of answer Teach turned and pointed over his shoulder towards a large hanger or warehouse situated in one corner of the camp. It was separated from the areas in which we prisoners were permitted access too by a high wire fence. "In there they got three tanks, the only armoured vehicles in this base. If they got them driving around we'd all be dead in minutes. But if we got one of them under our control, then there'd be nothing these droid filth could do to stop us. They haven't got no missile launchers, mines or any other anti-tank stuff. We could just ride right over the whole garrison as if they weren't even there!" Stopping, he looked me up and down, and then finally said "I want you as the tank man".

"Why do you need me?" I asked, my throat suddenly as dry as a Tatooine dirt farm.

"Because our template was strong, we are strong!" Teach emphasized the second part of his sentence by striking his armoured chest with his fist, producing a sound like a rancor punching an AT-AT. "He was an okay pilot too, he fly well as any. But he no good with ground cars and tanks and that. We need training to be good. But you, you Fett boys, you can drive anything' right?"

This fact was so well known that there was no point me trying to deny it. Jango Fett had an affinity with almost any vehicle that borderer on the supernatural. This, although slightly diluted, he passed on to his clones. That's why we made such good pilots, drivers and engineers. Without waiting for an answer Teach continued "so I need one of you regulars to pilot the tank, and you are supposed to be the best".

Unable to think of any reason why I couldn't drive his damn tank for him I instead tried another tactic. "But how would we arm the prisoners and fight our way to the hanger. Surely we can't break into the droid armoury without heavy weapons, and to get them we need the tank. But to get the tank we'll need the weaponry first; it's a vicious circle. That means that..." I added as afterthought.

"I know what a vicious circle is!" he snapped "but you see that's where you're wrong; there's another place where we can get weapons and gear, and much better than that Sep crap!"

"A secondary armoury?" I asked, the small flicker of hope dying horribly in my chest.

"You could say that. You see these bloody Neimoidians, who think there so smart, have made a big mistake. Because they want to get more credits for us they keep are weapons, the ones we're captured with. That way they can say to the Republic '_you get your soldiers back and we'll throw in their gear for a bit extra_'. All we have to do is break into the storehouse where they're kept, grab what we need and then split up. You lead a team to the tanks and I take the clankers armoury. We win" he finished smirking.

Mad as it sounds a small part of my subconscious was marginally cheered by this news; I'd got very attached to my old DC-17 blaster and had given it up for lost. But I digress. I could see one last possible loophole, and I was beginning to think it would prove as useful to me as the others before it. "Alright; so we take the camp, then what? We'll be trapped here, still prisoners, only without the fences".

If Sergeant Teach had been grinning before, it was nothing to the expression of glee that now spread itself across his face. "It's a three part plan see. First part; we take the camp. Second part; we take the ship, when it arrives for us. Third part...I'll tell you about that when we get to it. So you in Hawk or what?"

I was trapped; as completely trapped as I'd been at any time in my military career when some damn fool dropped an idiotic plan in my lap. The difference this time however, which almost made things worse, was that I could, _technically,_ say no. Usually, when I'm backed into a corner and forced into some madcap scheme, it's by someone like Skywalker or Ahsoka; someone who if I disobey them the result will be a firing squad at dawn. This time I was being ordered around by a bad batch sergeant who I officially outranked, but who I nevertheless sensed it would be decidedly unhealthy to cross. Ordinary clones have it hardwired into them to obey whoever was above them in the chain of command, but with a bunch of experimental lunatics, who knew what had been put into their heads. It even crossed my mind to go running to Commandant Lamon, tell him everything and then ask for protection. However I dismissed this notion almost the moment it entered my head; authority can only protect you for so long, but sooner or later you have to face the music.

Not trusting my voice to remain steady I nodded. As the clones of the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion congratulated me on joining their little enterprise I comforted myself by thinking that they were probably all bark and no bite. They wouldn't actually go through with attempting a coup d'état against a camp packed with battle droids, armed initially with nothing more threatening than bad language. I was almost able to convince myself of the truth of this, almost; that is until I remembered the glint in Sergeant Teach's eye.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Next time; the clones of 18th Experimental Shock Battalion start there prison break, dragging a very unwilling Captain Hawk along with them. What could part three of Sergeant Teach's plan be? Please Review!

The line "_with nothing more threatening than bad language_" is a reference to the film Aliens – "_What the hell are ____we supposed to use __man? ____Harsh language_?"


	5. Prison Break

**Chapter 5: Prison Break**

* * *

Over the years I've known a whole host of strong willed, death-or-glory, individuals; both men and women who by rights should have been behind bars, wearing stout straitjackets and stun cuffs! Such individuals as Captain Rex, Anakin Skywalker, Admiral Kilian, Luminara Unduli, Shaak Ti, General Veers, Plo Koon, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Grand Moff Tarkin and Ahsoka Tano, to name but a few! With people like these all you can do, whilst there unrolling some half-baked, lunatic scheme for getting you killed, is nod along, smile politely and all the while rack your brains for a way out. I've been dragged into nightmarish situations by ferocious madmen over the years more times than I care to remember. However when I look back now from the safety of retirement I do sometimes feel a grudging respect and even a little affection for some of my old commanders. Not so Sergeant Teach. When I think back to the events that followed our little chat, in which he mapped out his suicidal battle plan to me, I still feel a burning hatred of the man, even after all these years. If it hadn't been for that bad batch bastard I'd have spent the rest of my time at Camp O'flag enjoying a rare period of peace and quiet. What's more, if it wasn't for that bloody nerfherder, I wouldn't have been dragged into one of the most unpleasant episodes of my career! Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

After Teach pitched his stratagem (I'm being _very_ generous dignifying it with the term) to me I spent the next couple of days in a cold sweat. At any moment I expected him and his maniac brothers of the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion to banzai charge our guards en masse. Inevitably the Seps would panic (I certainly would have done in their place), resulting in a mass slaughter. However as the days turned into weeks and still I heard nothing more from Teach I began to hope that his bark was worse than his bite. Surely he had seen the insanity of his scheme and had decided to just let the clankers load as all up onto ships bound for the Republic. However as the day of the Separatists' ship arrival and the end of our captivity grew ever closer my anxiety once again began to intensify. To say that the night before the ship was due to arrive I was experiencing butterflies in the stomach would be inaccurate; they were more like those vile hunting flies you find on Teth! It was a summer night and criminally hot, but eventually I managed to get off to sleep.

* * *

I was standing in thick undergrowth. Around me towered ferns, mushrooms and carnivorous flowers, all taller than I was. The air was thick and humid, so heavily laden with pollen that it was enough make you choke. I was back on Felucia. Suddenly I heard the sound of something crashing through the undergrowth towards me and, turning, I saw a sight that forced me to emit a choked cry of terror. Behind me, cutting down anything in his path with his four lightsabers, his great metallic legs allowing him to close the distance between us in long loping strides, was General Grievous himself. Without stopping to think I turned and ran for my life. When it comes to running away I generally pride myself on being able to give a good account of myself over any terrain, but now it felt as if I was trying to move through thick treacle. Glancing over my shoulder, to see if that robotic killer was gaining on me, I at first felt a rush of hope. He was nowhere to be seen. My optimism was short lived however; leaping from one overgrown fungi to another was that demoness Asajj Ventress. Whimpering I tried to put on an extra spurt of speed. It was then that I noticed the gleam of sunlight on metal, standing out starkly against all the organic matter around me. I burst into a small clearing and found myself facing an old, rusted TX-130 Saber. I knew that I had no hope of out running such an agile pursuer and so I bolted towards light tank, wrenched open the rear access hatch, flung myself inside and then slammed the small door shut behind me.

I sat in the fetid, claustrophobic darkness, trying to still my hammering heart. Suddenly a harsh voice spoke from the darkness "hello Hawk, I've been waiting for you". A moment after that awful voice broke the silence the interior of the vehicle was bathed with blood red light. Sitting, not three feet away, was Sergeant Teach, with a red lightsaber clutched in his fist. "You betrayed us Hawk, you talked to the Seps"

"No!" I yelped, trying to back away from the madman and his presumably stolen Jedi weapon "no, oh Force no, I swear I..."

"You squealed on us to the Seps and now you're going to bleed, nice and slow!" he growled, beginning to move towards me.

"No no no!" I howled desperately. Turning I crawled back towards the hatch through which I had entered, but when I reached for the handle I found it gone. After scrabbling pathetically for a few seconds I lost my nerve completely and started screaming in terror, pounding on the thick steel plating with my fists. The hammering grew louder and louder, and I knew that at any moment I would feel the bite of the lightsaber in my ba...

* * *

I shot bolt upright in my bed, sweat pouring down my back and my breath coming in great ragged gasps. The disorientation one feels when waking from a nightmare took longer than usual to dissipate because, although a quick scan of my quarters revealed no Sergeant Teach after my blood, the red glow and hammering from my dream continued. After a moment of bewilderment I realised that the dull light was that of the dawn; the two small twin sons of Sta-Lag rising together and filling my room with a dirty red glow. The sound of the hammering...came from the door of my cabin. It couldn't have been later than five in the morning, hours before the camps curfew came to end. Whoever was outside my door shouldn't have been there. For a moment I considered pretending to be asleep, but when the pounding became still fiercer and a deep voice whispered "Captain Hawk? Captin wake up!" I decided that I had no choice. Very unwillingly I rose from my bed, pulled on the black body glove we clones wore under our armour (Force those things were hard to put on when you were half asleep!) and then cautiously unlatched the door.

It's a highly unnerving thing to open a door and find yourself facing the very man (flanked by two identical copies of him) that you, but moments before, were having a hideously vivid nightmare about. The moment that I had unlocked the door to my cabin it was forced open and Sergeant Teach, and a pair of his men, pushed their way in; without so much as a by your leave. The clones of the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion were never a pleasant sight, even at the best of times. Now they looked nothing short of terrifying. Each of them had painted their faces and armour jet black, donned bandoliers made of strips of torn cloth and stuffed these with improvised weapons which made a standard issue combat knife look about as dangerous as a lump of moss. I noticed such instruments of agonizing death as clubs studded with shards of glass and rusted nails, machetes made from pieces of iron cooking pots and daggers fashioned from the sharpened lids of ration tins, attached to short wooden shafts. Holding what can only be described as a homemade battleaxe, Teach's starred at me through bloodshot eyes. "Get your armour on captain and get ready to move out".

As I pulled on my breastplate, helmet, greaves, pauldrons, gloves and all the other elements that made up my battledress, I tried desperately to think of some viable reason why they should go off and start their rebellion without me (or preferably go off and not start a damn thing). But every feeble excuse my poor benighted brain attempted valiantly to conjure up died on my lips as I caught sight of Teach and company. At last I was ready and miserably followed the manic sergeant out into the dawn. As we crept through the sleeping camp the stark white beams of the guard tower's search lights cut through the early morning semi-darkness. Several times we had to stop dead to avoid walking straight into the path of one of the lights and once even had to duck under a nearby hut for safety (the prisoners huts were raised off the ground on staddle stones, to prevent us digging escape tunnels). At last we reached a cabin I recognized as one of those allocated to the clones of 18th. Teach pointed silently to the door and very reluctantly I walked inside. I found myself in a long low hut, identical to those I had entered several times during my period of incarceration. It was packed with battle-ready clones. Some carried the homemade weapons I had observed earlier, whilst others were unarmed. However as every one of the men from the battalion were all well over six feet tall, muscled like Herglic bodybuilders and pumped with enough aggression to fuel a galactic genocide, I decided that employing the term '_unarmed_' for any of them was rather misleading.

Sergeant Teach was not a man to waste time beating about the bush. "Right; first me, Hawk here and a few of me best boys will capture the storehouse where are gear's being held. Nice and quiet. Then Hawk takes a squad and moves on to his primary objective; the tanks. I send a runner back, alert the rest of you gents, you come get your guns and then we attack the main armoury. Not so quietly this time!"

When the grunts of sycophantic (or possibly entirely genuine) laughter had died away I voiced a question. Not because I was overy interested in the answer to tell you the truth, but primarily to postpone the moment that I had blaster bolts hissing past my ears once more. "What about the rest of the prisoners?"

Teach simply shrugged "me and me boys can take care of these droid filth all by ourselves. If any of your regulars want to join in that's fine by me, as long as they don't get in my way!" Looking around the cabin and noting no further questions or observations he said, for the second time that morning, "move out".

* * *

As we crept through the silent camp, once again dodging the strafing search lights and the few battle droids we saw on patrol, I found myself directly behind the broad threatening shoulders of Teach. Suddenly he held up a clenched fist, signalling for the rest of us to halt. Twenty or so feet ahead of us stood, with their backs to us, a pair of Neimoidian guardsmen. They were smoking cigarettes, something they certainly wouldn't have been doing if they'd realized they were in the presence of hostiles. One of the first things a half way competent sniper learns to look for at night are the tiny pinpricks of orange light that indicate a soldier having a quiet smoke. "Stay here; these two are mine" he growled under his breath, before slipping away silently into the gloom.

Thanks to the still prevailing half-darkness I wasn't able to make out the details of the attack. All I could see with any certainty was Teach creeping noiselessly up on those two poor oblivious devils, a sudden pounce and then nothing. Not so much as a swiftly silenced cry. When he motioned for us to resume our progress to our objective I couldn't help but glance at the fallen sentries. I shuddered and quickly averted my eyes. Both men lay sprawled in the dust; their throats not so much slashed as savagely torn out. Their large eye starred up unseeingly at the sky, as if in shocked astonishment. At last we reached a barbed wire fence, which Teach had one of his men cut with a large pair of improvised wire-cutters (which more closely resembled a pair of ferocious gardening shears). Crawling through the ragged whole the trooper created I found myself no less than a few feet away from a medium sized duracrete storehouse.

"Surely" I whispered "we can't just walk in. There'll be an access key or iris scanner, or something".

Teach grinned, his teeth standing out stark white (although they were actually far from it) against the black paint covering his face. "It's a hand print scanner actually, captain. But it won't be a problem". So saying he held something up for me to see and for the second time in under a minute I shivered with revulsion. It was the severed hand of one of the guards. "Come on". When we reached the corner of the building and peered cautiously around it we found our way blocked by a couple of battle droids. Picking up a pebble Teach hurled it over the heads of the mechanical guards so that it caused a small '_plink_' away on their left. The oldest trick in the book admittedly, but those B1 droids were always a few starships short of a fleet. As they obligingly turned and began advancing in the direction the missile had landed, Teach indicated a couple of his troopers to do the honours. The men advanced, every inch as quietly as their sergeant, carrying fearsome looking trench clubs. A moment later a pair of resounding crashes, accompanied this time by an electronic squeal of surprise and pain (that is if machines can feel such emotions; which oddly in my experience I've found they can) cut through the dawn silence like a whole artillery park AV-7s opening a barrage. I stood rooted to the spot, gritting my teeth and waiting for some Sep to raise the alarm. After ten seconds past and all hell failed to break loose, I let out a sigh of relief and followed Teach and his troopers towards the door to the storehouse. Teach had apparently used his grisly key because when I reached the building I found the thick steel doors already parted

Inside I found towering shelf units holding metal boxes with the names, numbers and ranks of clones stenciled on them in clear black letters. Only the Separatists had that level of attention to detail and organization. The _gallant_ men of the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion were already ransacking every weapons cache they could reach, some already fighting brutally with each other over who should claim ownership of some desirable firearm. Realizing that the rights of the previous owners would probably not mean overly much to these gentlemen I set of quickly to find my box. Thanks to the diligence and care of the Separatists who had filed away all the confiscated weapons that came into their possession, I found it with little difficulty. It was thankfully still undisturbed; I carefully removed the lid and extracted the contents. Even my knife had survived my capture! When I had placed the DC-17 in its holster at my hip and the combat blade in its hidden sling, concealed behind my breastplate, I felt far more comfortable. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed them and how naked I'd felt, creeping into combat without them.

However there was no time to rejoice in their recovery, as I could already hear Teach (who had apparently forgotten the need for secrecy) bellowing for order. When I arrived back at the entrance to the storehouse I found him, now carrying a Z-6 rotary blaster cannon and looking as dangerous as a bull rancor in rutting season. "Right, Captain Hawk" he said catching sight of me "it's your time to show us what you Fett clones are worth. Take these men and head for the hanger".

"And when (I tried not to think _if_) I've got control of a tank what should I do with it sergeant?" I asked, trying to feign a casual confidence I most certainly wasn't feeling.

Teach shrugged "kill droids" he said simply.

* * *

Well whilst Teach sent a runner back to alert the rest of his men that they could advance, I and the squad I had been allocated, advanced swiftly on the hanger I had been told contained the camp's armoured vehicles. The reason for my haste was simple; Camp O'flag had become a ticking time bomb. At any moment the guards would find the bodies of the dead sentries, catch sight of the lines of prisoners streaming towards the weapons storehouse or simply be attacked Teach and his pet lunatics. Whatever happened, battle was about to be joined and I wanted to be inside a nice cosy tank when the party got started. As I mentioned earlier I'm all for the safety offered by tanks, but my enthusiasm becomes somewhat dampened for them when they go up against anti-tank rifles and the like. The idea of attacking an enemy who couldn't shoot back was, to a coward like me, very appealing indeed. When we reached the hanger we found the buildings wide doors standing open. I slid along the wall until I able was to peer into the large building. It contained three AAT tanks and a squadron of five STAPs; plus the usual debris you can't have a self respecting hanger without. Fuel drums, piles of pallets, mountains of crates, skips full of mechanical refuse and so on. I could only see a single guard, an officer engrossed in the contents of a datapad.

"I'll take him" I hissed, as one of the troopers under my command raised his newly acquired blaster rifle to gun down the Neimoidian. Creeping forward, I approached the man from behind, taking care not to catch my foot in one of the trailing cables that overran the hanger floor.

I'm certain that I didn't make a sound, but sometimes it's not necessary to do so. I know I've realized, through some sixth sense, that I'm not alone or that someone's following, me countless times (but then I'm as jumpy as a Nexu on a hot tin roof). Suddenly he started and turned around sharply. The officer's eyes widened in surprise "what the..." he began.

My fist connected hard with his chin, knocking him out and smashing him clean off his feet. As he lay crumpled at my feet one of the troopers (I never did get the hang of telling any of them apart from each other; save for Teach and that goliath Corporal Gorax) appeared at my shoulder. "Nice punch captain, now let me finish him".

So saying he drew a wickedly serrated combat knife, and would have stabbed the Neimoidian as he lay helpless, if I had not snapped "no! We have a job to do here trooper. You can kill all the Seps you want when you're manning one of the secondary blasters of that AAT" pointing to the nearest vehicle. He starred insolently at me for a few seconds, and just when I was wondering whether I should go for my pistol, he shrugged and sheathed his weapon. That little stunt could have cost me my life, and all for some Neimoidian I'd never met before in my life. Very out of character behaviour for me, I'm sure you agree. I still struggle to explain to myself why I did it. I suppose I must have felt that I owed his kind one; I take people saving my life very seriously.

As I was clambering up the side of the tank, and about to hoist open the turrets access hatch, a battle droid seemed to appear out of nowhere from behind a tottering pile of crates. "_Captain Volmer sir? I thought my sensors perceived the sound of..._" the droid broke off when it saw me, frozen in the act of climbing into one of its army's battle tanks. It went for its blaster rifle, but I was quicker.

I snapped off one clean bolt, which struck it right in the centre of its metallic forehead and blew its cranium apart in an extremely satisfactory manner. Suddenly I heard the sound of blaster-fire echoing from across the camp. Looking up I saw strobing flashes of blue and red light around the area of a large squat building I knew to be the Separatists primary arsenal. A second later then a baleful howl flooded through the camp, like some great beast in agony. The droids were sounding the alarm. Things were about to get very complicated very quickly. Turning I pointed to the men I was commanding "you and you, into the tank; I need two gunners to operate the secondary weapons on this thing. You get into the turret and man the anti-personal blaster. As for the rest of you, the choice is yours. You can try your hand at controlling one of the other tanks if you like, go for the STAPs or get out of here and attack on foot. It's all one to me".

Without another word I pulled open the tanks turret, dropped lightly through the hatch and clambered down into the bowls of the AAT. Squeezing through the inner workings of the thing wasn't easy; it had been designed for battle droids which are by definition rather thinner than we humans. Still I at last found the pilot's seat, settled myself into it, checked the others had got into position (one on my left, one on my right and one above and behind me) and then turned my attention to the impressive array of switches, dials, levers, buttons, lights and triggers in front of me. I dare say that to anyone other than a clone of Jango Fett it would have been nothing short of a nightmare. But to him, and therefore to me, it was immediately obvious; you steered with _these_, operated the small frontal blasters with _this_, accelerated and braked with _that_, and just kept your eye on all _those_ to make sure everything was ticking over nicely. Fett really was a genius you know.

* * *

Taking the steering levers in both hands, whilst keeping my eyes on the viewing and targeting screen, I carefully eased the vehicle towards the doors of the hanger. Just as I was navigating my way through the wide steel doors a Separatist Platoon Attack Craft, laden with battle droids, shot around the corner of the hanger and began speeding away towards the battle raging around the armoury. The driver of the troop transport made no attempt at evasive action, obviously under the impression that our AAT was safely in droid hands. In ordinary circumstances the responsibility of firing the tanks main heavy laser canon would have fallen to the vehicles commander, but it was possible for this task to be performed by the tank's pilot himself. It was generally felt however that a droid's operating system, which were apt to become confused by such canny pieces of technology as communicators and chairs, would inevitably fail to cope with performing the dual role of driver and gunner. But to quote the late General Grievous, "I'm no droid".

Flicking an override switch, which redirected control of the AAT's primary weapon to me, I sighted through the viewing port, made a minor adjustment and then pulled the trigger built into the right joystick. The high energy shell ripped straight through the flimsy transport as if it were made of tin foil. A second later it detonated with a white flash of superheated flame, leaving nothing but the charred and blacked remains of the PAC, and a scattering of droid limbs. A grin spread across my face; this I liked. It's strange that I began this very extract of my memoires by saying, in no uncertain terms, that I disliked armoured vehicles in combat, due to their proneness to blowing up, and I stand by that sentiment. However there is an exception to every rule and that exception is the AAT (in my book). Heavy armour, a powerful primary armament and best of all it was a repulsorcraft. In other words it didn't have any damn silly legs! I've never understood the military engineer's fondness for walkers; they're slow, unwieldy, easily over balanced, complicated to build, maintain and repair, and finally very vulnerable to traps, anti-tank weapons and bad terrain (All Terrain they called them, the nerve!). Whereas with a repulsorlift engine you can glide across pitfalls, mines, sinking sand, thin ice, marshland and the roughest ground imaginable without the slightest jolt. I tell you, if we'd had AATs on Endor, rather than those pathetic AT-STs (perhaps the worst military vehicle ever constructed), we wouldn't have been overrun by those bloodthirsty furballs; no sir!

The destruction of the PAC transport had not gone unnoticed. A hail of blaster rounds, directed at me from one of the guard tower's repeating blasters, pattered harmlessly against the AATs thick armour as if it was nothing more dangerous than a light rain. Retargeting the cannon I let fly a second time and one of the towers lit up like a beacon. I then began to carry out the instructions given to me by Sergeant Teach; namely to provide heavy fire support. Travelling slowly around the perimeter of the camp I took out tower after tower until none remained. I then employed one of the tanks secondary ammunition types, the aptly named bunker-blaster round, to aid the attackers (which now included my fellow regular clones by the hundred, as well as Teach's lot) against some of the fortified positions within the camps. As I approached one of the blockhouses I had observed when entering the camp I noticed, away on my left, another AAT. Clearly some of the men that had accompanied me to the hanger had decided to take my advice and try their hands at being tankers. The machine weaved from side to side in a rather ungainly manner, stopped a few hundred feet from the building and then fired. The shot missed the small fort by a mile, but the one that answered it did not.

The rocket that spiralled from one of the blockhouse's upper windows, originating I would imagine from that old Separatist favourite the E-60R, struck the tank's vulnerable flank. The side armour of AATs, and for that matter most armoured vehicles, is much thinner there than at the front. The missile detonated deep within the tank, causing the ammunition and fuel to blow up in a series of secondary explosions. After that I doubt that there was a piece of that tank left bigger than a dinner plate. It could very easily have been me. Suddenly a thought pushed its way through the stupefaction cloggy up my brain after having witnessed the fiery demise of a vehicle identical to the one I was piloting. "Teach you lying, double-crossing son of a Bantha!" I snarled under my breath (careful not to be overheard by any of the other occupant of the tank). Now whether Teach was aware all along that the Separatists had a missile launcher or two to hand, and decided not to share the information with me, or if he honestly didn't know, I never found out. But knowing the man as I did, I'd lay good money on the former.

"Holy Force!" I hissed through clenched teeth, wrenching the left control lever as hard as I could. The second missile that flew from the building exploded exactly where my AAT had been but seconds before, creating hole like an asteroid impact crater. Once again I must point out that if I'd been piloting a great clumsy Republic AT-TE, I'd have been blow half way to Coruscant. However, thanks to the nimbleness afforded my by the hover tank, I was able to avoid certain death by inches, target the blockhouse and return fire. The shell punched through the thick duracrete wall of the building, creating a vast smoking hole through which I wasted no time pumping a follow up anti-personal shell. Just to guarantee that none of them would be getting up again.

* * *

And then it was all over. As is often the case with battles, and wars for that matter, when they're going on it feels as if they will last forever. Then suddenly, and frequently without the slightest warning, everything goes quiet and you realize that somehow you've lived through what many of the men around you have not. That's how my whole military career ended don't you know; one day I was a commander in the Stormtrooper Corps, the next the Empire has collapsed, the Emperor has been chucked down a bottomless pit and I'm in rebel custody (friendly custody though mind you, as it turned out two of the rebels were old friends of mine). There never seems to be a transition period, only a before and after. I drove the AAT across to the ruined command bunker, disembarked and then found myself standing at the edge of a crowd consisting of both regular clones and Teach's experiment variety. Using a combination of shoving and my rank I managed to get to the front and see what was going on. Standing on either side of the door were a pair of troopers from the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion. After only a few seconds of watching a sorry party indeed were roughly pushed and shoved out of the bunker and into the circle of watching clones. They were captured Neimoidian officers and guardsmen; there immaculate uniforms in tatters, smeared with blood, soot and mud, many sported injuries and a few even had to be supported by their friends to even remain standing. Many were missing their helmets or hats, something almost unheard of and highly shameful in Neimoidian society.

Last to be ejected from the command post was Colonel Jarder Lamon, former Commandant of Camp O'flag. The old man had clearly been badly beaten, and for one of the rare times in my life of self-preservation and selfishness I felt a pang of sympathy for someone other than myself as he was flung into the dust. Sergeant Teach strode causally out into the open air, ideally tossing a DC-15S blaster carbine from one hand to the other. Slowly, and in obvious pain, Colonel Lamon managed get up on one knee. His expression was stern and resolute as he starred defiantly at his executioner. This was a man who knew how to die well. Teach stopped in front of the old Neimoidian; thin streaks of the black camouflage paint he was wearing had been washed away by rivulets of swear during the night's battle and this, combined with a psychopathic smirk, resulted in him appearing madder even the usual. Slowly he raised the weapon.

"Sergeant Teach" I said, surprising everyone and most of all myself.

Teach twitched and snapped his heard around to stare at me "yeah?" and then as if as an afterthought "sir?"

"The man you are about to shoot is a high ranking colonel in the CIS. The Separatists will pay well for his safe return and that of his men. Might I recommend that we extend to them the same courtesy that they have to us and take them prisoner? I am sure" I added "that the Separatists will not fail to reward those who spared the lives of their soldiers _personally_".

That did it I think; the possibility of credits coming his way. Teach considered for an uncomfortably long time and then lowered his weapon. "You smart Captain Hawk, you know a thing or two. You can look after the slimesuckers then, you're the new prison warden. Congratulations...sir". Once again the mark of respect that I was technically due from him was late in arriving and did very little to make his comments and behaviour any more acceptable. Teach was not a man who liked taking orders from anyone other than the psychotic demon that lived inside his head.

As the sergeant turned away I shivered. That was the second time during the last few hours that I stood up to a maniac to save lives other than my own. Once again I'm forced to say that I can't explain it. I suppose it's possible that very, _very_ deep down I have a small shrivelled conscience. But I doubt it. I suppose I was mainly counting on Teach not being mad enough to gun me down in front of dozens of my comrades. He'd have been dead in a heartbeat. Looking back now I have a strong suspicion that the only thing stopping him doing just that was the promise of credits in his future.

Walking across I carefully helped Colonel Lamon to his feet. "You alright colonel?" I asked rather fatuously, supporting the old man's weight.

"I've never felt better captain" answered Lamon, managing a weak smile.

Taking in his ragged and battered appearance I asked "really?"

The small smile grew slightly "if you will insist on asking me damn silly questions, what choice have I got but to give you a damn silly answer?"

As I walked Lamon over to the rest of his comrades I heard Sergeant Teach saying, perhaps to himself, "stage one take the camp, stage two wait for and then take the ship". As he stalked off through the crowd, which wisely parted to let him pass, I couldn't help but remember that there was a phase three of Teach's plan. '_I'll tell you about that when we get to it_' he'd said. I've never liked secrets or surprises, and it's because of people like Teach that I've never warmed to them.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Next time: the prisoners attack the Separatist ship and part three of Sergeant Teach's plan is revealed.


	6. Taking the Ship

**Chapter 6: Taking the Ship**

* * *

I've seen some remarkable sights in my time; the invincible Death Star reduced to a cloud of floating wreckage (twice!), the Jedi Temple in flames, a whole planet wiped out in the blink of an eye and a pair of twi'lek twin sisters, I once met in a bar on Coruscant. But in its own way one of the most fascinating, almost frightening and downright laughable things I've ever witnessed was the face of Commander Piper when I met him twenty minutes or so after I'd stopped Sergeant Teach ventilating the head of good old ex-warden Colonel Lamon. Piper, his moustache bristling ferociously and his face changing colour quite spectacularly from red to white to purple and back to red again, glared at me. At first words seemed to fail him; this state of affairs, although it did not continue, did not exactly resolve itself entirely either. "You knew...about, about...this...outrageous, ill-conceived, unsportsmanlike...affair? You did not...vouchsafe to me...the commanding officer...near mutinous some might say! You sir...are...I mean to say...that is...quite impossibly risky...I could not have condoned such action...but...all the same, as things have turned out...I suppose...well done captain".

This, mark you, is but a brief summary of the speech Commander Piper gave to me, amongst the smoking ruins of Camp O'flag. In reality he must have stammered, faltered, changed his mind, backtracked, cleared his throat, coughed noncommittally and generally prevaricated about the bush for the best part of five minutes. If I wrote down exactly what the chap said to me, as well as I can remember it, it would go on for paragraphs. I think therefore that the abridged version will be more than sufficient to give you the general idea. You see Commander Piper, though a good soldier, was very much set in his ways. He firmly believed that war was a gentleman's game and didn't hold with such things as rebellions, subterfuge and sneak attacks. This, combined with his indignation of being kept out of the loop, was the reason for his outrage. However he was also loyal to the hilt to the Republic, knew every verse to the Galactic National Anthem, hated the Separatists with a passion and therefore was overjoyed to once again be a free clone. Hence his contentment with the way matters had resolved themselves. Although it was a titanic battle, he eventually seemed to decide that I was some sort of heroic daredevil, who cared nothing for his own personal safety and only thought of fighting the good fight. Possibly the most inaccurate character assessment anyone has ever received. After he had truly regained the power of speech he asked for a full report.

Through _no_ fault of my own, I assure you, Commander Piper somehow seemed to get the idea that I was one of the main driving forces behind the uprising. Well alright I may have been responsible for giving him that impression, what with my manly frankness and gallant modestly. But bear in mind I had been shot at by everything from a blaster rifle to a rocket launcher the night before, so I think I was entitled to a bit of the credit. Force knows I'd earned it! Piper looked at me like a proud grandfather "it was a risky thing captain, dashed risky. But you pulled it off and did what damn few men could have done. I'll be recommending you for a commendation and a medal for your actions. It was a mad stunt Hawk, but well, I can't pretend that I'm not glad to be a free man once more". Glancing over my shoulder he saw the group of bedraggled Neimoidian survivors sitting or standing together. "I hear you have taken it upon yourself to be responsible for the welfare of the prisoners. Very admirable sir, but knowing what I do of you I'd have expected nothing less".

Well Piper hadn't quite got his facts right on that account; I was the new jailer for those Neimoidian guards, officials and officers who hadn't been massacred by Teach's bloodthirsty savages, but this was not a position I had volunteered for. It had in fact been hoisted upon me out of the blue by Teach himself, a sergeant I outranked. Once again I realized that I could have told him to go and take a running jump, but once again thought better of it. You didn't talk back to Teach, not even if you were a Fleet Admiral. I shrugged "someone had to look after our hosts".

Standing guard over the prisoners proved to be most certainly necessary; the looks on the faces of the clones of the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion that milled around the camp and passed us were so violent that I had no doubt that if I had not been present (with authority from Sergeant Teach) they'd have been torn limb from limb. Luckily for the Neimoidians one of the survivors of the previous night was the camp doctor, who was now busying himself with caring for the wounds of his comrades as best he could. As his left arm was bandaged with a strip of torn cloth Colonel Lamon smiled wanly up at me. "Quite a wakeup call you gave us last night Captain Hawk".

"It was not my idea I assure you" I answered entirely truthfully.

Wincing as the doctor tightly bound up his wound Lamon asked "and what now?"

To this I could only shrug "that is in the hands of Sergeant Teach, this is all his stunt".

"Let me give you a piece of advice; that one is trouble and I don't just mean for me. Keep an eye on him Captain Hawk. I know a true psycho when I see one".

Once again I found myself drawn towards the old colonel; it was good to hear someone verbalizing what I already knew. I had been standing guard over the captured Neimoidians for about half an hour or so when one of Teach's men approached me. "The boss says he needs one of them officers to do a little job for him. If he refuses or decides to go all noble on us tell him we'll tear his bug eyes out and feed them to him!"

"What does he want the officer to do?" asked the captain I vaguely recognized as the man I'd knocked out in the hanger the night before.

Without looking at or answering the Neimoidian the bad batch clone continued "so pick one and bring him into the command centre, got it captain?" As the man was about to turn he added over his shoulder "and tell that filth that if he ever speaks to me or me brothers again without permission I'll rip a hole in his guts and watch him squirm!"

"Any volunteers?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Immediately Lamon began to get to his feet, but a young lieutenant next to him grasped his shoulder "no uncle, let me go. If they mean to kill the officer they have summoned I am far more expendable than you. We cannot lose you!"

It seemed at first that Lamon was going to argue, but at last he said "very well my boy, and may the Original Light go with you".

Standing the young officer walked towards me and then saluted "Lieutenant Vas Veen; lead on captain".

When we arrived in the command centre we found Teach standing over and glaring at a number of holoscreens. Glancing up as we approached he grunted "about bloody time! Right, the Seps have arrived in orbit and will shortly contact us. I want this scumsucker to be ready to answer them". Turning to Lieutenant Veen he snarled "you will tell them that there was some trouble here last night but that everything is under control. You will give no indication that anything is wrong. You will give them the all clear to land their ship to pick us up. Do this and you may live, for the time being".

For an agonizing moment I could all to easily see young Veen turning out to be one of those death before dishonour chaps, but thank the Force he turned out to be a little more intelligent than I would have given him credit for. "Very well" he said grimly.

All in all it was far easier than one would have expected. The Neimoidian on the other end of the dialogue was naturally concerned when he heard about last night's battle, but when he was told that all had settled down nicely now he immediately requested permission to land. Looking up at Teach, standing over him like a vengeful wampa, Veen hesitated before deciding on a course of action that would not result in his disembowelment. "You are cleared for arrival".

* * *

Of course it wasn't the Separatist ship that was due to transport us back to Republic space itself that was to land. The vast number of prisoners meant that only a _Providence_-class destroyer was up to the challenge, vessels which are not intended to be brought within a planet's atmosphere and landed (unless of course they're being piloted by Anakin Skywalker). The task of actually ferrying the captives from the camp to the ship would be carried out by two C-9979 landing crafts. Before the drop ships arrived Sergeant Teach and Commander Piper, still trying valiantly to pretend that he was still in overall control of the situation, planned their attack.

I wasn't actually present during the conference itself, despite my seniority; I was struck babysitting Neimoidians. However a runner was soon dispatched by Piper to fill me in. The scheme was not exactly Machiavellian in terms of complexity, but I had to admit that under such circumstances as we found ourselves in (when discipline and order were in pretty short supply) a simple plan was probably for the best. A few dozen clones would be outfitted in the armour of our erstwhile guards and take up their vacated positions around the landing site, whilst a couple (at gun point) of the Neimoidian officers would be tasked with welcoming the party from the ship when they disembarked. When the signal was given the newly arrived Separatists would be rushed and overpowered. This would grant us control of their ships and allow us to nip up the idling destroyer and repeat the operation (if on a rather larger scale). Foolproof, hopefully.

Well it was far too risky for my liking, but not for the first time (or the last) I realized that I had no choice but to grin and bear it. Actually, with the benefit of hindsight, the plan wasn't quite as dangerous as I perceived it to be at the time. You see the Seps had been stockpiling clones on Sta-Lag and then returning them to the Republic, for a price, for just over two years by this point. Consequently they had become complacent. It was because of this that our uprising the night before had come as such a shock and been so effective of course. Nevertheless, as the two confederate transports slowly descended through the air towards the landing pad assigned for them, I couldn't help feeling my usual pre-battle nerves and nausea. Although many of our men, Teach's thugs and the regulars, had donned Neimoidian Gunnery Battalion gear, I had instead opted for the broad-brimmed hat and robe of a minor official. These flowing, encumbersome garments concealed my white armour from any preying eyes. Not that I intended to be any nearer the action than I could help; I had no intention of catching a stray blaster round to the face at this late stage in the proceedings.

The thrusters of the pair of C-9979s created miniature tornados in the sand of the floor of the camp as the landing crafts leisurely put down. When both had settled they lowered their thick steel access ramps. From these issues forth Neimoidian soldiers and officers, blissfully unaware of their impending danger. It was at this point that my fond hopes of bringing up the rear and keeping my head well down were decidedly dashed. A guttural whisper from somewhere above my left shoulder gave me an unpleasant start. Keeping well behind the stolid bulk of an ATT, as no one in their right mind could possibly confuse him with a Neimoidian, Corporal Gorax growled "the boss says he wants you to head for the cockpit of that one" so saying he pointed to the nearest ship "he says I'm to follow you...for protection". The ugly giant grinned down at me, looking more like a Gamorrean with severe indigestion than ever.

Well that's torn it, I thought morosely. I naturally now had no choice in the matter. If I disobeyed Teach's instructions and ran for cover, as I had intended to do as soon as the shooting started, Gorax would happily pull my head off and then do unspeakable things into the resulting hole. Given the choice I'd take the band of ill prepared and surprised Neimoidian guardsmen any day. An officer, flanked by a pair of guards, advanced from each of the land crafts towards a delegation made up of several of our phony guardsmen, Teach and Piper dressed in the same robes and large hats that I had chosen (the former with bandanas pulled up and the latter with brims tugged down to conceal their human features) and finally the unfortunate Lieutenant Veen. Teach was standing just behind the only genuine Neimoidian of the group and, even at this distance, I thought I could make out the barrel of a blaster pistol protruding from the folds of the robe and sticking into the young man's back. If Veen decided to play the hero he'd have his spine and intestines reduced to a bloody mulch inside of a second.

As the new gang of Neimoidians came to a halt before Teach, Piper, Veen and company, I silently prayed that Colonel Lamon's nephew would continue to display the good sense and self preservation he had shown to possess thus far. Thank the Force he did. Although pale (a sort of sickly lime green colour) his voice did not tremble as he said "greetings, Lieutenant Veen at your service. As you can see we had a spot of trouble here last night".

"A _spot_?" asked an incredulous Neimoidian captain. "It looks as if you had a full blown revolution on your hands man!"

"Ah, yes, well it's all over now regardless and the prisoners are ready to be transported" answered Veen, hesitating for only a moment.

"I see you've laid on a larger escort force than usual in any case" remarked the captain, indicating the ring of supposedly Neimoidian soldiers surrounding the landing zone. "However I suppose we'd better get on with it. But I might add that I shall report this debacle to my superiors and recommend a full scale investigation of this affair".

Slowly the ranks of clone prisoners began to troop towards the waiting transports, the small groups of their crewmen standing aside to let the supposed captives march past. I'm surprised they didn't realize that something was amiss at this point; the tension in the air was so thick that you would have had trouble cutting through it with a lightsaber. It was just as the first ranks of the marching prisoners had passed the Neimoidians, and were therefore between them and their ships, that the trap was sprung and the world seemed to explode. It was, unsurprisingly, Sergeant Teach who struck the first blow. As he was striding past the Neimoidian captain, the officer who had been speaking with Veen, he suddenly, and with shocking violence, lashed out with a fist like the foot of an AT-RT walker. The blow struck the unfortunate man in the gut and sent him choking and sprawling to the earth. Before the captain's guards or fellow officers could so much as raise their weapons, a surging crowd of clones bore in on them from every direction and overpowered them in a matter of seconds. Those who were attacked by my fellow Jano Fett clones were generally taken prisoner; those who were attacked by Teach's thugs were not so lucky.

I felt a powerful hand in the small of my back urging me roughly forward. "Get going Hawk!" snarled Gorax, brandishing a cudgel and clearly itching to use it on some luckless Separatist.

Drawing my DC-17 pistol I forced my legs, which felt like they had turned to lead, into motion. Charging into that heaving melee was the last thing I wanted to do, but what choice did I have? Dodging writhing brawlers I at last managed to push my way through the throng to the landing ramp of one of the C-9979s. Had the ambush been slightly less sudden the Separatists might have raised it and, abandoning their comrades, fled. However, either because of the speed of the attack or because they were loathed to leave men behind (perhaps both), the Neimoidians had not done so and consequently the shuttles had already been overrun. If the fighting on the landing pad had looked unappealing, the writhing combat within the droid transport itself looked like a vision of Hell! (Chaos, the Void, the Abyss; whatever you want to call it. Personally I'm not certain such a place exists, but if it does I feel sure that there's a place reserved in it for me. I've killed too many men and betrayed my friends to many times to hope for redemption now. I suppose my best bet, when I stand before the Sith Lords that govern that dark realm, is just to grin, hope they're in a good mood and then rely on my skills as dissembler to save my hide. Sorry, I'm becoming morbid; but at my time of life one always has a weather-eye on the hereafter).

Clones, Neimoidians and battle droids filled the wide corridor leading into the C-9979, thrashing together, lashing out with fists, rifle butts and any objects within reach that could serve as improvised weapons. Thankfully the clones seemed to be winning the day and I couldn't see any Separatists without sparring partners. Hesitating for only a brief moment I took a deep breath and then plunged forward. Using my elbows against soldiers of the Republic and the barrel of my blaster to pistol-whip Separatists, I succeeded in forging a path through the bowls of the vessel; along narrow passages, up steep staircases that were almost ladders and finally to the flight deck itself. Here I found the handful of Neimoidian pilots already subdued by a combined force of Fett and Teach clones. A corporal I recognized as Whistler of my own legion was arguing angrily with one of the hulking brutes of Teach's private army. "Commander Piper says we take prisoners so we take prisoners! Stand down private!"

"I don't take order from the likes of you Fett boy!" snarled back the private, bearing his teeth and tensing himself for combat.

"That will be enough!" I snapped, hoping that I sounded authoritative and commanding, rather than as if I was about to urinate copiously in terror. To my fervent relief all the clones, including the men of the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion, gradually relaxed. Looking from face to face, some helmeted and some bareheaded, I added "we require the services of these Neimoidians to pilot these ships back up to the Separatist ship, waiting in orbit".

At last the confrontational bad-batcher lowered his blaster rifle and muttered sullenly "whatever you say captain. If that's what the boss wants" making it abundantly clear who's authority, mine or Sergeant Teach's, he was obeying.

As the private and his comrades, including Corporal Gorax, retreated down the access stairway and left the cockpit and its pilots in the hands of myself and my fellow Fett clones, Corporal Whistler gave one of his habitual whistles and said "thank the Force you turned up when you did sir, I reckon things were about to get nasty".

"I am sure that the troopers of the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion would never consider attacking an officer of the Grand Army of the Republic or disobeying his orders corporal" I said, not believing a word of it for a moment. By the look of scepticism on Whistler's face he was no more convinced by my little speech than I was myself.

* * *

Ultimately the skirmish lasted less than ten minutes, with us taking only a handful of casualties. Of the Separatists every battle droid had naturally been destroyed, some of the Neimoidians were killed and the rest taken prisoner. The capturing of Neimoidians, incidentally, was due entirely too regular clones intervening on their behalves and saving them from being brutally beaten to death by Teach's pet savages. This in turn was only possible because the regulars outnumbered the bad-batchers by about four to one. Had the balance of power been different, I shudder to think of the blood bath that would certainly have been the result. Thankfully the pilots of the ships, apart from a few minor injuries, had all survived unscathed. This meant that we could force them to ferry us back up to the destroyer in orbit around the planet. Although amongst the Republic ex-prisoners were a few pilots, they were used to flying ARC-170s; something completely different from the massive hulking transports that were now under are control. Being Fett clones they would no doubt have been able to learn without too much difficulty, but just then we just didn't have the luxury of time. It was vital that we should immediately board the landing crafts, fly them up to the destroyer and then launch a second, considerably larger, attack against the Separatist warship itself. To delay risked sparking the suspicions of the confederates circling the planet.

C-9979s usually have crews about eighty battle droids and just over a hundred sentient beings. They can hold dozens of smaller troop transports, such as MTTs and PACs, and up to a staggering one hundred and fourteen AAT battle tanks! The huge storage areas, usually given over to armoured vehicles, had been converted to transport large numbers of prisoners. Into these temporary quarters we packed our own men and our prisoners, both the Neimoidians from the camp and the ships. Commander Piper, Sergeant Teach, Lieutenant Veen, the battered and bruised captain who had been punched by Teach (an officer by the name of Nalcer) and I all took up our positions on the bridge of one of the landing crafts. Captain Nalcer had been persuaded, at gun point, to cooperate and to act as if nothing was wrong as we made our way towards the Separatist ship (which we now learned was named the _CNS __Rapacity_). As we left the atmosphere and approached the _Rapacity_ a light on a radio built into one of the banks of consoles began to blink red. A pilot, nursing a black eye, glanced up nervously at his captors; seeking instructions. Teach nodded and growled "answer it scum, tell them we're landing. Give anything away, hint that something isn't quite right and you'll be dead in a heartbeat!"

The pilot gulped nervously, reached out a shaking hand, pressed a button that I guessed open up a line of communication with the _Rapacity_ and said hesitantly "F-Flying Officer Meliar; all prisoners have been recovered, no complications. W-we are making our final approach towards hanger bay B".

A few agonizing seconds of silence followed the pilots' report; had the slight quavering note in his voice warned whoever was on the other end of the transmission that all was not well aboard the pair of C-9979s? Just as Sergeant Teach was raising his blaster pistol and the pilot was opening his mouth to scream for mercy a crackle of static burst from the radio, swiftly followed by a reply. "Confirmed, Shuttle Alpha, you are cleared for approach".

After letting out a gasp of relief Flying Officer Meliar quickly responded "thank you _Rapacity_, over and out".

* * *

The landing crafts passed through the thin membrane of the force fields that covered the mouths of the hanger, keeping in the atmosphere and allowing localized gravity (both vital for the well being of any organic life forms in the area, if not so important for the droids), and at last ponderously came to rest on the steel deck plates. Glancing towards Commander Piper and Sergeant Teach I asked "Well, what now?"

To my complete lack of surprise Piper opened his mouth to voice his views, but before he could so much as utter a syllable Teach laughed and said "what now? No messing about this time, that's what. We're here at last, no more stealth, no more sneaking about, no more disguises. Me and me boys are going to scrap these tin cans right proper!"

"Ah...well, yes, perhaps the sergeant's suggestion should be adopted" gurgled Piper, after starring dumbstruck at Teach like a fish plucked from its tank and contemplating an immediate future that including being served with butter and potatoes. "But, but I must stress once more; prisoners are to be taken. Any Neimoidian who offers his surrenders must be treated with honour".

Teach glowered for a few moments and then at last agreed "right you are _commander_, just as you say. They might be worth something I suppose".

Well as every man (except me obviously) pushed and shoved his way towards the exit ramp of the landing craft, eager to get to grips with the enemy, I made sure to hang back as far as possible. My hopes of staying out of danger had been quashed once already, when it came to the taking of the transports, and I was damned if it was going to happen again! During my first ever battle on Christophsis, all those years ago, I developed a technique that has stood me in good stead ever since. The trick is appearing to be very much involved in the proceedings; lots of running about, shouting, cheering, bellowing battle cries and so forth, whilst _always_ remaining as far away from the actual enemy as possible. If you linger at the back, hiding under a pile of ammunition boxes, people get suspicious; they start using ugly words like coward and deserter. However, as long as you've done enough meaningless and suitably ferocious sounding yelling, you'll be hailed a hero. It might sound unlikely, but believe me it works. I have the medals to prove it!

Consequently I was nowhere near the great steel ramp when it came crashing down, allowing a raging tide of clones to spill forth. But I can nevertheless imagine the scene; battle droids standing stock still, stunned into inactivity as their weak processing systems tried to comprehend the unexpected attack. Neimoidian soldiers and officers standing their ground or turning to flea in panic; either way suffering the same fate. The ship's captain and his senior officers gathered to review the prisoners first hand; swamped and washed away like insects in the face of a monsoon downpour. By the time I left the safety of the towering shuttle, shouting heroically like a man possessed and looking in every direction for a solid piece of cover, the battle was already half won. Such had been the element of total surprise that the Separatists had hardly offered any resistance to the tidal wave of clone troopers. Besides the shock of the assault another deciding factor in dooming the crew of the destroyer was that there were so few of them. The crews of such vessels are usually near countless, numbering in the tens of thousands, and if such had been the case aboard the _Rapacity_ then a few hundred clones, attacking from ambush or not, would have stood no chance. However, luckily for us, the destroyer we had boarded had a crew of only a fraction of the size that one would have expected; a thousand at most. The reason for this numerically inferior complement of crewmen (and crew-droids) was that the _Rapacity_ had been modified specifically for the transportation of prisoners of war; up to fifteen thousand if necessary. Accommodation for humans, or for that matter any other organic life forms, requires far more space than the storage facilities for a correspondingly similarly sized group of droids. Organics need sleeping quarters, dining areas, kitchens, showers, lavatories and potentially hundreds of other amenities. All a battle droid requires, once he's deactivated, and folded up nice and tight, is a place on a rack with hundreds of his fellows; ultimately taking up no more space than a large fruit bat! Its small wonder that we were always outnumbered a hundred to one in just about every battle we ever fought with the Separatists!

Despite only outnumbering the clone boarders by a little over three to one (not good odds for droids, a clone is worth five droids at least) things could still have turned out badly for us if the ships small crew had included even a handful of droidekas. Those rolling nightmares could have scuppered the entire uprising then and there. Thankfully the ship's compliment of droids only included about thirty super battle droids (not to be sneered at mind you), eight hundred or so regular battle droids (a prospect which didn't even scare me, well not much anyway) and a few dozen Neimoidian officers and guardsmen. The latter in particular put up a heroic struggle, defending the bridge like ARC troopers, but eventually even they were all either killed or captured. I have chosen not to relate to you to much of my part in this particular action for two reasons; firstly I took as little part in it as I could, spending much of my time standing guard over prisoners and pretending to be chaffing to be back in the thick of things. Secondly because the battle was over rather quickly, half an hour at most, and in my memory it seems even shorter. I think this may be due in no small part to the magnitude of the events that followed it.

* * *

When every captured Neimoidian from the camp, the landing crafts and the crew of the _Rapacity_ itself had been shoved into the cells prepared for us, all the clone troopers were ordered to the main hanger. The primary hanger of a _Providence_-class destroyer is a truly awe inspiring sight; larger than the grandest of cathedral naves, capable of housing thousands of fighters and bombers, and, perhaps its most notable characteristic, featuring an entrance on either side of a the ship. This allows Separatist pilots (or more often than not space craft that simply fly themselves) to enter through one force barrier, refuel and resupply, and then leave via the other. This therefore can be used to greatly increase the effectiveness of Separatist fighters and bombers when they are in combat in the immediate vicinity of the vessel from which they originated. As you can imagine the few score hundred clone ex-prisoners hardly took up any space at all. The men were all standing in formation as if they were on a parade ground; although it must be said that I doubt if any Drill Sergeant in the galaxy would have thought they looked acceptable. On a raised walkway that ran along one side of the hanger that was no higher than six or so feet high, stood Commander Piper, Sergeant Teach and myself. As I looked down upon the motley collection of clones I was struck by the small percentage of men that came from the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion. Before the rising at Camp O'flag they had made up perhaps just under a quarter of the total number of prisoners; whereas now, standing at attention (or at least their version of it) in serried ranks on the right hand side of the formation I could only see what looked like less than half their original numbers. Had their casualties really been that dire?

Some deep dark coward's instinct was elbowing my higher brain functions in their metaphorical ribs, telling them that something wasn't quite right. However before I could even begin to attempt to work out what my poltroon's senses were getting at, Sergeant Teach began the proceedings. Bellowing for silence Teach shouted "soldiers of the Republic, we have fought and died well. We took the camp, we took the transports and now we have the ship!"

This met with thunderous cheering. I however suddenly frowned as a memory swam before my eyes; Teach had spoken of a phase three of his plan, a phase that he would enlighten me about when the time came. Well all had been accomplished, was now the time that I would learn what the last part of the sergeant's scheme entailed? Meanwhile Teach was steamrollering on with dogged perseverance "you, me boys of the fighting 18th, you've killed clankers and scum-suckers real good today" more cheers, but this time from the small contingent that seemed to be all that remained of his men. "But if it wasn't for the Fett boys we would not be here now; we'd be dead or in cells right enough!" a crescendo of applause and stamping of boots from the regulars followed. Grinning Teach raised his hand for silence "me and me boys have strength, but it's the discipline of the Fett clone that's winning this here war. I would like to ask, on behalf of me self and me boys, if, in honour of our victory, you might give us a display of some of this legendary discipline". Turning to Commander Piper he added "with your permission sir?"

Commander Piper was a man who loved few things in life as much as good honest drilling on the parade ground and of course immediately consented. "Naturally Sergeant Teach, are there any particular manoeuvres that you and your men would wish to see?"

Teach considered for a moment and then said "well supposing I was to say a manoeuvre to you sir and then you could have your men do it. How would that be sir?"

"Fine, fine" remarked Piper cheerfully.

"Well then sir, what about we start with attention?" ventured Teach, sounding more respectful than I'd ever heard him before.

The men of the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion had all fallen back to a respectful distance, allowing the regulars plenty of space for their drill. Piper, who I now remembered had been raised up from the ranks and had served much of his career as a sergeant, straightened his helmet and then shouted "company, attention!" Every clone snapped to attention, poker straight and eyes front. I must admit I couldn't help feeling a sense of pride. Clearly Piper and my fellows all felt the same thing; you wouldn't exactly call it showing off, but we were certainly going impress these bad-batchers! Pride comes before the fall.

"Incredible!" marvelled Teach "now what about, let me see, shoulder arms?"

"Shoulder, arms!" in perfect timing every rifle, carbine and whatever other firearms the men had managed to scrounge during the uprising was snapped to the right shoulders of the clones holding them.

"Marvellous! Perhaps a little marching; about face and quick march?"

"About face! Quick march!" turning like automatons the clones smoothly turned 180 degrees and set off towards the opposite wall of the hanger. After they had gone forty or so feet Piper called "halt!"

"What march discipline commander!" said Teach fervently, causing Piper to swell with pride. "It's just a pity that..."

"What?" asked Piper more than slightly indignantly.

"Well sir, it's just that your men look so smart that it's just a great shame that they've got such a motley collection of weaponry. Sort of spoils the look of the thing you know?"

Piper chuckled "that isn't a problem sergeant. Company ground arms, about face, quick march!" the clones immediately followed his orders to the letter, laying down their weapons, turning so that they once again faced towards us and then began marched back the way they had come. When they were exactly where they had started Piper shouted "halt!"

"Very good commander, yes that looked much better" remarked Teach, smiling. "Now let me see, ah yes...how about fire?"

Piper opened his mouth to shout the order when he broke off and looked at Teach in surprise "fire is not a parade ground instruction Sergeant Teach. Besides, even if it were, the troopers no longer have their arms".

Teach's smile grew broader "sorry commander, but I wasn't talking to you that time. Now it's my boys turn to show you what they do best". As Piper starred in complete incomprehension Teach's face suddenly split into a snarl and he screamed "OPEN FIRE!" I doubt if such a thing as ever happened in the history of warfare before (although knowing the nature of sentient beings everywhere I expect it has). In that hanger I watched a superior force happily drop its weapons, march away from them and then stop right in the firing line of their enemy. All done because they were following the orders of their own commanding officer, who in turn was carrying out the instruction of theirs! The surprise was total and the result a foregone conclusion. Not only did the small company of Teach's clones unleash withering volley after volley upon my hapless brothers, but the rest of his men, the men I had noticed were missing from the parade, suddenly burst forth from every door into the hanger and charged the rapidly diminishing group of ex-prisoners, firing as they came. Teach himself brought up the carbine he'd been cradling in the crook of his arm and hit Piper in the chest with a blaster bolt that knocked him backwards of the raised walkway, sending him crashing to the deck plates below. Within seconds every clone was down, leaving me quite alone and with the barrel of Teach's blaster pointed directly between my eyes.

I usually shriek like a frightened Acklay under circumstances such as these and it was thereore very fortunate that on this occasion I simply stood rooted to the spot in terror, my mouth open in silent scream. Not for the first time wearing a helmet that completed concealed my face probably saved my life and my reputation. Teach glared at me for a second or two and then laughed "ha! You're a true soldier Hawk. A warrior to the marrow! You're like me, nothing makes you panic". He pointed towards the mounds of bodies littering the hanger "that lot are stunned, but you...you could be useful. I reckon you've got more free will than the usual Fett clone, so I'm giving you a chance to join me and me boys". His grin grew a little wider "I'm afraid I don't take rejection well. If you want to get noble on me I might just have to switch this blaster from stun to kill".

A very, _very_small part of mind was relieved to hear that my comrades were not in fact dead (not yet anyway), but the vast majority of my mental faculties were decidedly concentrating on my own fortunes. It's rather ironic that in a lifetime of lying to and deceiving generals, admirals, statesmen and Jedis, it was a bad-batch sergeant who came closest to seeing me for what I truly am. He may have thought that I was a true blue solider, an entirely inaccurate interpretation, but he did realize that I had a considerably higher level of control over my own thoughts and actions than was usual in a clone. I couldn't begin to guess at what mad scheme Teach had rattling around in his thick skull, now that he had shown his true colours as a traitor. Did he plan on pledging himself and his men to the services of the Confederacy? Unlikely, after the level of hatred he and his thugs had displayed towards the Separatists thus far. The bottom line was this; all I was certain of was that I was looking down the barrel of a blaster. The dark opening of the muzzle seemed to me at that moment to be as bottomless and forbidding as a black hole. I even imagined, completely illogically and erroneously of course, that I could make out a sinister winking blue spark, deep in its depths; the blaster bolt itself eager to issue forth and blow the contents of my skull across the wall behind me. I gulped before saying in a voice that was cool and languid (two emotions that just then I couldn't have touched with a fifty foot lightsaber) "what are you orders...sir?"

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Next time: The clones are prisoners once more, Teach and his cronies have a Separatist destroyer under their control, and Captain Hawk learns what the traitors are planning (whilst pretending to be one himself).


	7. Treacherous Brothers

**Chapter 7: Treacherous Brothers **

* * *

If I am remembered by posterity at all, it will no doubt only be through the entirely fictional reputation I have worked so hard to maintain throughout my life. Captain Hawk; the man of steel who never shirked his duty, went around saving orphans from burning churches, rescued damsels in distress and who knows what else! All complete bilge, as you now know, having read my memoirs. However if I was to be immortalized for actions that I _actually_ performed, I would humbly suggest that I deserve some notoriety for the incredible number of times that I have turned traitor, adopted false identities, gone under cover, abandoned my allies and generally carried on like a second rate spy! Why some might say, and not without good reason, that I ended my military career by becoming a turncoat. After all, as I write these reminisces, I am enjoying a comfortable retirement on Coruscant; rather than leaning over a holographic conference table on Bastion and watching the Imperial Remnant dying by inches.

I have a fair amount of experience when it comes to adopted a false persona; over the years I've pretended to be a bounty hunter, slaver, merchant, Imperial Pilot, beggar, nobleman, Separatist Ambassador and, by far the most difficult, an honest solider. I have already related the occasion when, with Captain Rex, Ahsoka and Skywalker, I had to enter the criminal underworld of Coruscant, disguised as a vicious killer, and attempt to uncover a plot to destroy the Jedi Temple **[A/N: see _The Bounty Hunter's Trap_]**. That episode was hardly enjoyable, but it at least it only lasted a few hours. Whereas when I was dragooned into joining a mission to infiltrate Death Watch, I had to pretend to be a Mandalorian terrorist for weeks! Mind you that particular assignment did have its perks; it was during it that I met a very interesting young woman named Bo-Katan. A bit of a psychopath admittedly, but with a figure that would have made a super battle droid sweat! We became so attached in fact that she didn't even turn me over to her comrades when she discovered that I was a clone. Ah yes I can remember her as if it were yesterday..._I lie back on the bed, with Bo-Katan straddling my waste. She reaches up and removes her helmet, allowing her crimson shoulder length hair to flow down like a fiery waterfall. She smiles a slow, seductive smile and stares down at me with those great, green eyes of hers. "Alright my clone, let's see what you've got"_...ah yes, happy memories. I do believe that I may be wandering from the story at hand somewhat; however, in my own defence, you wouldn't blame me if you'd met her.

The point is that I was no stranger to pretending to be someone I wasn't and consequently, when Teach at last revealed himself as the black hearted traitor he was, I was able to mask my growing horror without too much difficulty. After I pledged my allegiance to him and his band of cutthroats, and he had removed the blaster from under my nose, I was roped into helping his men carry and drag the unconscious clones down to the cell block. Once my comrades had been placed safely behind containment fields I was summoned to the bridge. When I arrived I found a dozen or so bad-batchers experimenting with the various control consoles arrayed around the flight deck and Teach himself, sitting in the captain's seat and eagerly experimenting with the height adjustment settings. Well if I was going to play the part of an evil overlord's supporter I was at least determined to be a competent one. "You requested my presence sergeant?" I asked, standing at parade rest beside his chair.

Noticing my presence he stood and gave me a deeply disturbing grin. "Sergeant? No Captain Hawk, not sergeant no more!" He considered for a moment or two and then continued "Commander maybe? Nah there're too many of them around, not senior enough. Admiral, I mean I have me own ship right? But then I'm a soldier, not a sailor. General! Yeah, general, that's it! From now on you, all of you, will address me as General Teach!" This last part of his monologue was bellowed to the room at large.

"Very well general" I said politely (it's unwise to be anything but when it comes to madmen you know) "what was it you wanted of me?"

"I want to fill you in on the situation captain" said Teach resuming his seat. "I knew you were different to those Fett grunts Hawk. You're a real warrior, one of the best from what I've heard, and with a mind of your own to boot! If you'd stayed loyal to them bastards in the Senate what would you get for your trouble? No freedom, no pension, no respect, no honour, no nothing! But if you follow me, I can promise you plenty of real good fights, gold and glory! Now how does that sound eh?"

It sounded bloody stupid and utterly unappealing as far as I was concerned, so naturally I nodded and replied "most intriguing general".

"Yeah those Kaminoan filth bred us for war, just like you. But they wanted us to be less controlled; they wanted us to be berserkers, only interested in killing the enemy". From what I'd seen of Teach and his men thus far it seemed to me that the long-necked scientists had hit the nail right on the head on this occasion. "They didn't want us to be bothered by high and might strategies, morals and all that rubbish. Just go straight at em' and go for the throat! But they got a bit sloppy when it came to keeping our minds under lock and key. We started to think '_yeah we like to kill, but why do we have to do it for the Republic?_' So after me and me boys were captured we planned this little enterprise, and here we are".

Indeed here we were; it would seem that the Kaminoans had, in their haste to produce some sort of battlefield 'fire and forget' soldiers, managed to skimp on their usually stringent programming. It had been known to happen in ordinary clones too of course; I'm living proof. I suppose the most notable example would be Sergeant Slick, whose betrayal very nearly lost the Republic Christophsis and far more importantly nearly got me killed. However both Slick and I were one offs; exceptions to the rule. There were countless clones, millions upon millions, who were loyal to the Grand Army, the Republic and the Chancellor until death. The idea that an entire battalion (or at least what was left on one) would turn traitor was absolutely without precedent. And all the fault of those damned Kaminoans sitting on their little water world and playing gods! I'm telling you the last words anyone in this galaxy will speak before it's sucked into a giant black hole or vaporized by an almighty thermonuclear explosion, will be some Kaminoan scientist in a lab saying 'I wonder what would happen if I...'. We should kill the lot of them now before it's too late if you ask me! All this passed through my mind in a few seconds. After I had taken in the enormity of the concept that over a hundred clones would simultaneously decide to stab the Republic in the back I said "and now what General Teach?"

Teach's more than slightly insane grin grew what looked like several inches "I mentioned gold didn't I? Credits? Well we're going to start going about getting some. You ever heard of Cad Bane, Embo, Durge, Bossk, Aurra Sing, Dengar, or C-21 Highsinger?"

Naturally I nodded, I'd met a few of them and had no wish to repeat the experience "of course, they're some of the best bounty hunters in the galaxy".

Teach starred at me hard and at last said "and how many men do you think each of them is worth?"

"I'm sorry?" I asked, nonplussed.

"You heard me; say if you had Cad Bane on your side, how many men would you consider he was worth? Alternatively, if you had to bring him down, how many men would you want to make sure the job got done?"

I considered for a moment. Cad Bane was one tough son of a bantha and I personally wouldn't have been happy facing him unless I had at least a platoon of good clones to hide behind. Shrugging I said "well of course it would depend on the men, but I'd say about ten or twenty at least, perhaps thirty to be on the safe side".

Teach jumped up and shouted excitedly "exactly! Thirty at the very most! And what about Dengar, five? Or Bossk, maybe fifteen? The point is that any of these great, famous killers are only worth so many, when it really comes down to it. Some jobs are always just going to prove too much for them. But what if you had an army, an army of bounty hunters? No target would be too secure, no individual too tough, no job to big!" By this point is manic smile had grown to such an extent it looked as if the top of his head was about to drop off. "Together we can be the greatest gang this galaxy has ever known; we'll all die rich or die the way men like you and me and me boys want to go; in bloody flames and glory!"

Well by this point I was nothing short of appalled. Teach's scheme might make sense on paper but as a man of the galaxy I knew full well that it simply wouldn't work. The only reason that bounty hunters are able to operate at all is because, whether they work individually or in small bands, they are just so difficult to pursue after they've completed an assignment. There are so many worlds for them to go to ground on its damnably difficult for law enforcement agencies (or sometimes other bounty hunters) to track them down. But when you're talking about a _Providence_-class destroyer, well I mean say, you just can't expect to be able to pop up wherever you please without people noticing or disappear without being followed. The things just too damn big!

Before I could work up the nerve to tell Teach that his great plan was about as watertight as a cheap paper bag, he continued "together we are united, we are strong, we are the fighting clones of the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion!" Our enlightened general then added charitably "and you of course Hawk, you're one of us now."

"Thank you very much for saying so sir" I said, inclining my head diplomatically.

As this point Teach began to stride about the bridge purposefully "yes, but before we go into the bounty hunting trade we have a little unfinished business to attend to, eh Hawk?"

"General?"

Teach looked downwards and tapped his boot several times meaningfully "we've got several hundred prisoners on board captain. Clones and Neimoidians; and they'll be people who'll want to buy them".

"You mean we're going to carry out the Separatists original plan; we're going to sell POWs back to Republic?" I asked.

Teach grinned again "yes and no". He took a moment to enjoy my incomprehension until at last he decided to elaborated "we will sell the clones back to the Republic...eventually. But first we're going to increase are stock a little. We'll meet the Republic at the prearranged location, same as usual, and then when they're expecting us to make the trade, credits for prisoners, we grab the credits and as many senior ranking clones as we can!"

"And then?" I gurgled, scarcely able to believe the monstrous scheme being laid out before me.

"We run" Teach replied simply, once again demonstrating himself to be the single _greatest_ military tactician in military history. "You see Hawk the same reason we took the camp, the landing crafts and this ship, will apply here. The Republic and these Separatists have done the most dangerous thing possible; they've settled into a routine. That makes you complacent, careless, absent minded and unprepared. They've been making these exchanges for years now; the last thing they'll see coming is an attack. And when we have the credits and even more prisoners we can do with them what we like; sell them to the Republic for real, or maybe the Confederacy or independent slave traders. The same applies to the Neimoidian filth; they ought to be worth a handful of credits each to somehow, although Force knows who! The possibilities are endless!"

Now if I was decent, moral sort of man, at this juncture I would tell you that I was sick to my stomach at the very notion of keeping my brothers behind bars, and perhaps even watching them condemned to torture and death. But as you well know I'm about as moral as a Toydarian trader. Oh I wasn't happy to hear my fellow clones might well end up in Separatist dungeons or up for sale in a market on Orvax IV, but quite frankly I was considerably more concerned to hear that Teach was planning to launch an attack on the Republic itself. Senators take few things as seriously as having large numbers of credits snatched from their grubby little fingers and I knew that, after we'd robbed them blind, they wouldn't rest until Teach, his mutinous dogs and unfortunately myself had been brought to justice.

Many are the times that I've been conscious that I'm standing on the brink of a precipice and about to be pushed head first into it by some daft bastard. Almost every one of those times I've also been painfully aware that I can't possibly wriggle out of the situation or make the lunatic in question, whoever they may be, see sense. However I've rarely been more alive to this fact than when I was serving aboard the _Rapacity_ under General Teach. I once watched him beat a man close to death just for talking back to him. Therefore, as I knew that any criticism I made of Teach's plan to attack the Republic would immediately result in my own bloody demise, I kept quite.

* * *

As we journeyed to the agreed site of the exchange of the clone prisoners for the Republic credits, I kept myself busy in my newly assigned post of Prison Warden. Just as I had been given custody of those Neimoidians captured during the uprising at the camp I was now in charge of all the prisoners aboard the _Rapacity_; including my brother clones. At first any of them I managed to speak to, when I was certain that I wouldn't be discovered by any of Teach's men, cursed me as a traitor. You see they didn't assume that I was faking my treachery, as ordinary organic soldiers might have done. The idea that any clone could _pretend_ to betray the Republic was to them almost as foreign as walking on water. However I eventually managed to persuade most of them that I was still a loyal soldier of the Grand Army, Force save the chancellor and all the rest of it. It took some doing but I managed it. However I couldn't even contemplate attempting to break them out. I was barely even able to snatch a few words at a time with them as they were escorted by Teach's thugs to the mess hall or some such location. You see Corporal, or now _Lieutenant_, Gorax had been made my second in command; a role that seemed to be a cross between bodyguard and bloodhound. The misshapen giant followed me everywhere; supposedly to protect me from a prison riot or something of that nature. At the time I suspected Teach was having me closely monitored and that he suspected something, but with the benefit of hindsight I think the reason that he gave me was the genuine one.

To make matters worse Teach had given Gorax the second access key card that was required to open the cell doors individually or en masse, through a computer consol. The monstrous trooper had also been given a whole host of other new responsibilities, based entirely; it seemed, on his terrifying appearance rather than any actual aptitude for the jobs. These included quartermaster, armourer and guardian of Teach's rapidly growing reserve of credits. This bank was composed of the combined monetary reserves of the camp warden's safe and the funds aboard the _Rapacity_ when she was taken. If Teach's stunt didn't get us all killed Gorax would shortly be sitting on top of a veritable mountain of credit ingots! I'm no Jedi and so have no moral objection to wealth, but given the choice between poverty and safety, and affluence and danger; I have no difficult in the slightest choosing which I prefer. Give me a hovel in which I may live in peace over a palace in which I shall always be in fear of my life any day. (Please bear in mind that as I am writing this I'm working my way through quite a large decanter of Corellian whiskey, which always tend to make me rather philosophical).

We arrived at the prearranged location for the trade off with the Republic about a week after we had begun the uprising and taken the ship. It turned out to be an abandoned fuelling and mining station, situated on a planet so small and lifeless that it was barely above the level of an asteroid. The _Rapacity_ and the Republic _Venator_-class Star Destroyer each took up positions on either side of the planetoid; keeping the mass of dead rock in-between the two ships and therefore making a surprise broadside from either vessel impossible. The exact meeting place was to be the main landing pad that had once served a couple of the long deserted hangers and warehouses. The Star Destroyer dispatched a pair of Corellian corvettes (I'm telling you those things are absolutely everywhere!) and a HAET-221 gunboat; the former to transport the prisoners back to the safety of the Republic ship and the latter, I guessed, to ferry whoever were the top brass for this operation to and from the exchange. Teach had questioned the former captain of the_ Rapacity_ thoroughly about the exact procedure of these meetings with the Republic, not wishing to do anything out of the ordinary that might tip them off, and had laid on the same ships that the Separatists generally employed on these occasions. Namely two C-9979s and a _Sheathipede_-class transport shuttle; the three ships assigned exactly the same tasks as those of the Republic vessels. The idea behind this arrangement was that, although all the ships immediately involved in the exchange were lightly armed, neither side would be coming to the table with any really serious firepower at their disposal. What's more, with the landing crafts packed with prisoners, there would only have been enough space left amongst the Separatist ships for a few dozen droids and Neimoidian guardsmen; therefore greatly reducing the opportunity to launch an ambush. The only real possibility for treachery lay with the Republic, as they're shuttles would initially be empty of prisoners and could have been used to smuggle a company or two of troopers down to the planet. However this was unlikely in the extreme. The Senate disliked and strongly discouraged the Grand Army from committing any military acts that were not entirely above board because they knew that the Confederacy almost certainly would use them for propaganda purposes to paint the Republic as corrupt and underhanded.

In conclusion these exchanges of prisoners for credits were about as safe as was possible under the circumstances. That is until Teach took charge. Rather than transporting prisoners the C-9979s would be packed with his brutal bad-batchers; all armed to the teeth. The armoury of the _Rapacity_ had been well stocked and the traitorous troopers were now all carrying enough gear to start a small war. Meanwhile the shuttle would be carrying a couple of genuine Neimoidians, to do the talking, and Teach and a few of his best men, disguised once again in either robes or NGB armour. This select band of picked killers once again did not include Gorax, as he would have stuck out like a Gornt at a garden party. The giant was hitching a ride down to the planet in one of the large shuttles. Unfortunately this meant that Teach required a right hand man to stand at his side during the coming exchange (or rather lack thereof) who he felt was trustworthy, a redoubtable fighter and could think on his feet. Curse my heroic reputation! After desperately trying and failing to come up with an incontrovertible excuse to remain safely aboard the _Rapacity_, I found myself slipping miserably back into the long flowing robe of a Neimoidian official. I was at least grateful for the shadow cast by the outfits accompanying broad brimmed hat. However, as insurance, I decided to employ a silk scarf as a form of bandana, winding the dark green material around the lower part of my face and praying to the Force that I had done enough to conceal my species from any curious onlookers. With my trusty DC-17 blaster stowed securing in the folds of the robe and my guts dancing the Boxnov-Three Step, I boarded the _Sheathipede_ shuttle and not for the first time prayed to the Force to save my unworthy hide.

* * *

So that the small shuttle could put down on the landing pad its four retractable steel legs, which served as landing gear, were extended; allowing the shuttle to settle comfortably onto the ferroconcrete and giving the distinct appearance of a large insect. The moment that the vessel's narrow boarding ramp was lowered I found myself gasping for air and actually clutched at a convenient handrail to prevent myself from collapsing. The fact is that the atmosphere on that glorified chunk of space detritus was so thin that it was damnably close to breathing vacuum (something I've done on several occasions and have no wish to do again). However, under normal circumstances, the air could have been as thin, as thick or as non-existent as it liked, as my helmet filters would have kept me breathing regardless. I've been a soldier since birth and have been wearing helmets almost as long. The Phase I, Phase II and Stormtrooper helmets might appear to be atheistically different, but to the wearer they were all very much the same. They offered moderate physically defense and were even capable of deflecting a glancing blaster bolt, but their greatest advantage lay in that they protected the trooper wearing them from almost anything nature could through at them. I'd grown so used to contemptuously ignoring such trivial matters as whether or not the planet I was stepping onto had air that it was something of a shock to find myself close to blacking out. However the moment soon passed and, although I continued to find each breath in my lungs considerably less satisfying that I would have liked, I was able to operate without any great difficulty, besides a slight sensation of lightheadedness. If any of the others found the woefully thin atmosphere of the meeting place disagreeable they did nothing to show it.

The Republic ships had already put down, the two large transports flanking the smaller gunboat, and the delegation of senior clones that were to make the exchange had advanced with their guards to exactly halfway between their own ships and ours. Clearly they were as familiar with the correct procedure of these occasions as the Neimoidians. As the supposed Separatists and I walked forward I gave my situation a jaundiced look; all in all things weren't exactly good, but I comforted myself with the meagre consolation that things could hardly get worse. You'd have thought I'd have known better by that stage in my career; things can always, _always_ get worse! It was only as we neared the pair of clone officers and the squad of troopers acting as their bodyguards that I realized just how wrong I was. One of them was none other than Commander Cody himself; a man I'd served with on several occasions and greatly respected. He was a reliable realist and a careful tactician who valued the lives of his men; two attributes I look for in my military leaders (rather the cheerful blind optimism of the likes of Ahsoka and Skywalker). The other was none other than Captain Rex. Although he bought into my heroic reputation wholesale and knew no more of my true nature than anyone else, he was nevertheless the closet thing I had to a friend. Rex was standing with his helmet neatly tucked under his arm and was wearing the expression of righteous indignation he always wore whenever he encountered enemies of the Republic under non-military circumstances. Well all I could think was he was going to be a damn sight more put out after he was captured by a gang of bloodthirsty lunatics; who might well happily slit his throat, send him neatly gift wrapped to Count Dooku or who knew what else! If I was a clone like that ARC trooper Echo chap, Force rest his soul, I'd have shouted a warning to the Republic delegation; sacrificing myself so that they could attempt to escape. Naturally, being a self-serving coward, I didn't dare or even contemplate any such thing.

The Neimoidians chosen to speak with the Republicans were the long suffering Lieutenant Veen, selected primarily because he had repeatedly demonstrated that he did as he was told, and the former officer in command of the _Rapacity_, Captain Daas Vrawn. This was in fact the first time that I'd met the man, as he had been captured during the first stages of the attack on his ship, whilst I was still skulking at the rear. A tall and imposing Neimoidian, who appeared to be fairly elderly; although I've never been very good when it came to telling an aliens age (yes I said _alien_, but if an old man can't be politically incorrect every now and again then who can?). He walked with a slight limp; but I couldn't tell you if that originated from an old battle scar, some malady such as gout or arthritis, or whether it was recently acquired from one of Teach's savages. Just as during the preliminary stages of the ambush of Captain Nalcer and the crews of the C-9979s, Teach was standing directly behind the senior Neimoidian officer; the barrel of his blaster no doubt stuck in the small of his back. If the old captain was nervous he masked it well. He stopped before the Republic delegation, inclined his head politely and said "Commander Cody, you are well I trust?"

Cody saluted curtly "fine thank you Captain Vrawn". This short exchange told me two things; firstly Cody must have taken part in these prisoner exchanges before, and secondly he and Vrawn, although hardly on friendly terms, had clearly established a working relationship.

"And where is Captain Keeli?" asked Vrawn, eyeing the party of clones for the missing officer.

Cody sighed heavily "Keeli fell on Ryloth, with Jedi General Ima-Gun Di, some weeks ago".

"I am sorry to hear that commander; Captain Keeli was a fine officer" turning his large amber eyes on Rex he asked "so this gentleman is his replacement I presume?"

"Only temporarily, this is Captain Rex of the 501st Legion. Rex, may I introduce Captain Vrawn of the Confederate Navy". Cody used his gauntleted hand to indicate both of the men as he made the introductions.

"A pleasure Captain Rex, your reputation precedes you" said Vrawn, bowing courteously.

"Sir" grunted Rex; clearly still getting used to the idea of Separatists who you had to talk to rather than shoot on sight.

Apparently feeling that enough pleasantries had been exchanged for now Cody asked "the prisoners are all aboard the transports?"

"Certainly they are" answered Vrawn. To the casual listener the Neimoidian captain's tone was as relaxed as it had been since the beginning of the encounter with the clone officers. However to me, a man with a lifetime's experience of cowardice, I sensed the edge of fear creeping into his voice. Vrawn knew as well as I did that Teach would spring his trap as soon as he saw the money and was clearly very conscious of the fact that he would be standing right in the eye of the storm.

One of the troopers standing behind Cody stepped forward and passed the commander a large metallic briefcase. He unfastened the case's clasps and opened it to reveal hundreds of neat little rows of credit ingots. They caught what little light was shining down upon them and flashed like a sheet of liquid gold. "Five million credits, the usual price" said Cody simply.

Before Vrawn could say a word Teach shoved him aside and stepped forward. The broad brimmed hat, bandana and robe he was wearing meant that, to the Republic delegation, he still appeared to be a belligerent Neimoidian; rather than a bad-batch killer about to go for the throat. "That's all well and good commander, but I don't reckon it's enough!" he snarled.

Rex and several of the troopers behind him began to raise their blasters, but Cody forestalled them. "Not enough? This is the prearranged sum settled in advance of this meeting with none other than Viceroy Nute Gunray himself. Turning to the sidelined Vrawn, Cody asked indignantly "Captain, what is the meaning of this outrage; who is this man?"

"The name's Teach, General Teach, and I think that we could get this sum up much higher; ten million maybe, or perhaps twenty. That is if we had a few more hostages". Before Cody, Rex or any of their troopers could do more than stare, the self styled general bellowed "18th attack!"

The boarding ramps of the pair of C-9979s behind our party crashed to the ground and from the darkness within poured forth Teach's bloodthirsty army. Many had chosen to equip themselves with rocket and grenade launchers, looted from the Separatist armoury, and these men immediately directed their fire towards the waiting Republic ships. At such close range and without the protection of their shields they never stood a chance. The hail of missiles from the stolen Relby-v10s and E-60Rs slammed into the stationary vessels with devastating effect. One of the Corellian corvettes slumped to the ground like a fatally wounded Thranta, whilst the other simply exploded in a fiery inferno. The HAET-221 gunboat, being rather more spritely than the lumbering shuttles on either side of it, actually managed to take off before a rocket struck the cockpit. The reinforced glass protecting the pilots shattered instantly and a moment later the small vessel was awash with flame. Like a drunken firefly the gunboat weaved uncertainly through the air for a few seconds, before crashing spectacularly into one of the already ruined corvettes. With their ships destroyed the small Republic force was cut off from any hope of retreat and their fate was sealed.

If Teach's lot had been regular Fett clones everything would have been over in seconds. However the bad-batchers own ferocity and stupidity hampered their efforts. With no fire discipline at all I saw men loosing off volleys of ill-aimed shots from their blasters, some paralysis beams and some bolts, many of which ended up hitting their own comrades. More incredible still were the treacherous troopers at the back of the mob who were so desperate to get at the Republic loyalists that they actually started attacking the men in front of them in an effort to clear a path. Nevertheless, even with the incompetence of the traitors, the result was never in doubt. Many of the Republic party went down almost at once, but a few proved rather more difficult to subdue. Cody, having lost his DC-17 blaster (the commander, like myself, preferred to use a single pistol rather than a brace), proceeded to fell every man who charged him with a truly remarkable display of martial arts. Cody was one of the best hand-to-hand fighters I ever encountered and was a match for just about anyone in the galaxy when it came to a sparring match. However the commander had to be lucky every time, the seething crowd around him only needed to be lucky once. At last the inevitable happened and, whilst in mid spinning kick, the blue ring of a stunner caught him full in the chest. The effect was like turning off a light switch; Cody collapsed in a heap and a moment later his motionless body was carried away by several of his attackers.

Captain Rex and a couple of troopers were the last to be subdued. They had succeeded in breaking away from the main battle and had taken cover behind a thick duracrete barrier, like an inverted trench, which had presumably been intended to act as a buffer in the event of a shuttle crash. With a dozen men Rex could have held that wall until Mustafar froze over, but with so few he didn't have a hope. Once again the traitors own aggression played into the defenders hands; as soon as the fools got close to the loyalists they seemed to forget all about their blasters and simply charged, in the hope of closing to melee. However through sheer weight of numbers they were eventually able to swarm Rex's position. Ideally I'd have stayed as far away from proceedings as possible, but I was carried along by the press of the crowd. Somehow I found myself scrambling over the barrier and looking down upon the scene beyond. One of the troopers was down, the other was running for all he was worth towards a warehouse away to the right with most of the mob on his heels (a man after my own heart) and the captain himself was fighting for his life against three assailants. Any normal man would have succumbed in seconds, but not so Captain Rex. Even without his blasters, which seemed to have been wrestled from his grasp, he was as fearsome an opponent as you could wish _not_ to meet. With a complicated movement that made you wince just to watch it, Rex blocked a punch directed towards his face, twisted the man's arm behind his back and, with a sickening crack, broke it. It was worse for the second attacker, who ended up face down on the ferroconcrete with a broken neck. The last traitor came at Rex with a combat knife which was pulled easily from his grasp and, in one quick movement, jammed into the in viewing slit of his helmet; shattering the black one way glass and killing him instantly.

Rex, having downed his last attacker, turned on me. So that my vision was not impeded I had pulled the silk bandana down, revealing my face. He starred at me in complete incomprehension for a few seconds before whispering "Force...is that you Hawk?"

It was at that moment that I saw it. Rising like an avenging Mandallian Giant behind Rex was none other than Gorax; with a DC-15A blaster clutched like a club in his massive misshapen paws. By comparison with the man that was wielding it; the firearm appeared by to be no larger than soup ladle. However I knew that the consequences of a blow from a rifle that weighed in at close to ten pounds would be a concussion at best and most likely a skull split wide open like a ripe melon. Apparently the overgrown monster had got it into his head that we were taking prisoners, but had forgotten that his weapon had a stun setting. I didn't hesitate but acted immediately. I pulled the trigger and shot Rex with a paralysis beam at point blank range. The impact hurled the captain backwards so that he actually bounced off the towering figure of Gorax, before coming to rest at my feet. The giant, as far as any expression could ever be read upon his twisted features, appeared to be disappointed. I didn't give him a moment to think "take him back to the ship!" I snapped imperiously. As Gorax stooped and picked up my fallen friend, I in turn bent down and picked up Rex's helmet. A clone can get very attached to his helmet and I felt sure that he would won't it later. I didn't know it at the time, but that simple action was to prove to have far reaching consequences; it probably saved the lives of Cody, Rex, Commander Piper and all the prisoners aboard the _Rapacity_, clones and Neimoidians. It may well have also saved my life, but it also caused me a hell of lot of trouble into the bargain.

* * *

Besides Commander Cody and Captain Rex, fifteen other troopers and junior clone officers were also captured; some from the delegation bodyguards and others from the crew of the Corellian corvette that had only been disabled rather than destroyed. The ambush had probably only lasted a few minutes; so quick in fact that that none of the Republicans had managed to get a distress signal dispatched to the orbiting _Venator_-class Star Destroyer. Although no doubt the destroyer sensed that something was wrong it had not made any decisive move in the time it took for us return to the _Rapacity_. Teach was a man who did not like to leave a thing half done and so, rather than just making the jump to light speed, he instead rapidly closed with the _Venator_ and gave her a volley of proton torpedoes and heavy blaster fire. The Republic ship was taken completely off guard and was badly damaged by the attack; making it impossible for it to give chase to us. Finally Teach seemed to decide that he'd caused enough destruction for one day and ordered the withdrawal. That night (as far as a day/night cycle can exist on a star ship) Teach's men celebrated their first victory in what they proclaimed would be a long and bloody career as bounty hunters and mercenaries. Almost all the bad-batchers were taking part in the drunken festivities, meaning that the prison block had fewer guards than usual patrolling it. I was nevertheless cautious as I walked past cell after cell, keeping a constant eye out for the few sentries still on duty. When I arrived at the force barrier that was keeping Commander Cody and Captain Rex safely secured I made one final check to make sure that I was not being observed and then whispered "good evening gentleman".

The two clone officers, who had both been lying on their bunks, sat up and starred at me. At last Rex said "Hawk wh...what the Force is going on? What the hell happened to you on Felucia, where are we, who are these traitors, are you one of them?"

Not for the first or the last time I found myself struggling to answer a vast number of questions quickly and under trying circumstances. In a low voice I gave Cody and Rex the short version of the story that I've been telling you (leaving out my own appalling cowardice and generally giving everything a nice glossy finish that didn't make me look like a first rate bastard). When at last I'd come to an end Cody said slowly "so you're not a traitor Hawk?"

"No commander" I answered patiently.

"It's an act?" asked a confused Rex.

"Yes Rex, I'm just lulling Teach and his men into a false sense of security".

Both Cody and Rex clearly struggled with the concept that a clone could _pretend_ to disown the Republic, but they were good enough soldiers not to query the situation further. Instead they decided to ask a few more pertinent questions. "Can you get us out of here?" hissed Cody hopefully.

"Not at the moment" I answered evasively "it takes two keys to access the computer which controls the cell doors. I only have one".

"Could you get the other?"

"Well..." I made the hissing noise through my teeth that plumbers and mechanics employ when they are about to tell you bad news that will result in you having to pay them large sums of money. "It's in a very secure location" namely Gorax's pocket "I'll do my best but..."

Cody was about to press me for further information regarding the access keys when Rex interrupted him. "Hawk, is my helmet on board?"

I was surprised by the question. As I said earlier, clones get attached to their gear but generally not to the extent that they'll start asking about it at times like this. "Yes actually, I brought it on board in case you might need it old chap".

Rex rubbed his hands together and grinned "brilliant Hawk, brilliant! I didn't trust this whole Separatist prisoner exchange concept an inch when I was roped into it. So I decided to bring along a little extra insurance. I had a micro tracker installed in my helmet, connected with the _Resolute_; meaning that Admiral Yularen will be able to follow this ship practically anywhere in the galaxy!"

As Cody opened his mouth to say, no doubt, that he was outraged that Rex would go behind his back in this manner and that he was also very glad he had done so, and I was on the point of pestering the captain for further details, the sound of approaching footsteps warned me that it was time to leave. Without another word I walked quickly away, saluting the sentry who, moments later, emerged from a smaller side passage that connected with the one that I had been having my whispered conversation with the two prisoners in but seconds before. I hurried back to my quarters and climbed gratefully into my bunk. I was understandably exhausted by the day's events but my mind was buzzing with the news Rex had given me. A warm wave of relief seemed to flood over me in the darkness; my nightmarish ordeal was almost over. The _Resolute_ would catch up with this Separatist scrap heap in no time, board her and then it would simply be a matter of finding a suitably secure bolthole to take shelter in until the battle was almost over. Then I could emerge and take my share of the glory. I wouldn't have to risk my neck trying to carry out some ludicrous one-man-army prison break after all!

Suddenly I sat bolt upright in bed. And then what? What happened when the last shot had been fired and we were all heading back towards Republic space? There would be a full enquiry of course into the whole affair. Teach, if he was still alive, and his men, those who hadn't been shot to pieces, would be put on trial and then either executed or sent back to Kamino for decommission (which came to the same thing, except the latter denied the condemned men even the right of being treated as human). But what about me? I'd had enough trouble convincing Cody and Rex, men who were good friends and old comrades, that I was no traitor. Commander Piper and most of the prisoners had eventually accepted that I was still a loyalist; but I nevertheless occasionally caught some of the troopers giving me searching glances. What would happen when I stood before the Senate, row upon row of sober politicians, and squeaked up at them that it had all been an act really and I hadn't actually sided with Teach. I could almost hear a dry old voice asking '_and what proof do you have of that Captain Hawk? What did you do to help your comrades when they were at the mercy of this traitor Teach?_' What if they decided I was a turn coat; or, almost as bad, what if they thought that I wasn't one but that I had failed to go to the aid of the captive clones out of cowardice? Either way, traitor or coward, I'd be on a shuttle back to Kamino before I could say sithspit! There I'd end my days on an operating table; with those mad docs poking around in my brain with scalpels and tweezers, trying to discover what was _amiss_ with specimen CC-7713. I was doomed, dead meat, up a certain creek with a conspicuous lack of a means of propulsion...unless. Unless I did something to prove my loyalty and bravery beyond a shadow of a doubt; something that would demonstrate that I had been completely in the right to pretend to side with Teach and had not acted as I had simply out of a desire to save my own skin. A cold feeling of dread stole over me as the obvious and only solution presented itself. No matter what the cost, no matter what the danger, I would have to rescue my comrades from Teach's iron grip.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Next time: Captain Hawk, to save his own precious skin, must rescue the prisoners onboard the _Rapacity_ before it is too late! To do nothing means certain death, to act only means _almost_ certain death.


	8. A Second Jail Break

**Chapter 8: A Second Jail Break **

* * *

**[Pre-Chapter Author's Note] **I apologize that this chapter is fairly short; it was originally intended to be the first half of a much longer one. However it was just taking me so long to write it that I decided to just release this first instalment now and the second part later.

* * *

As you can imagine, after I'd had the monstrous epiphany that the only hope I had of saving my life (oh and those of several hundred prisoners as well I suppose) was to raise a rebellion against Teach, I slept barely a wink. When I at last did drift off it was into a confused nightmare; in which I found myself before a court martial. The officers presiding over the trial were Count Dooku, Mace Windu and Sergeant Mauler, my old Drill Instructor from the academy. I awoke the next morning with a cry of panic and for a moment or two before my conscious mind reasserted itself I more than half expected all three terrifying men to come looming at me out of the shadows. When they failed to do so I rose and slowly began to dress. As I pulled on my armour I continuously wrestled with the impossible problem before me. Although I would never have been have been happy about launching an attack on Teach and his pirates all on my lonesome, it would have at least have been something to have had time on my side. If I'd been able to wait I'd have postponed the prison break until a time that was as perfect as possible; for example when Teach and some of his men were off butchering some peaceful community or something equally charming. As it was I was painfully aware that every second I delayed increased the chance that the _Resolute_ would turn up, rescue the prisoners and leave me trying to explain to the galaxy as a whole why I'd sat and done nothing.

Having donned my helmet, holstered my blaster and generally made myself look presentable, I exited my cabin and walked, deep in thought, to the mess hall that Teach's lot had commandeered for our use. It had originally been intended to provide sustenance for the few organic crewmen aboard the _Rapacity_ and, due to non-droids making up a relatively small percentage of the crew, was rather on the small side. Thus far I had generally found it rather too crowded for my liking and I was therefore surprised when I found it that morning to be virtually deserted. Besides myself the long benches contained no more than a dozen men; either slumped over tables, groaning feebly, or creeping slowly around the room, winching at even the slightest noise. Apparently the 18th Experimental Shock Battalion had done themselves rather well the night before and were still feeling the after effects. Having collected my bowl of slop I took a seat at an otherwise deserted table and spent the unappetizing meal cudgelling my brain, trying desperately to think of a plan. At least I was able to hear myself think; usually a meal with Teach's cronies was about as quiet as a Gamorrean's stag night. Having downed the last of whatever on Kamino I'd been eating, I wandered morosely up to the bridge to see if the great general had any fresh orders for me. After all I didn't want to be interrupted later, whilst I was busy plotting, by an angry communiqué summoning me into Teach's sainted presence.

As it turned out I needn't have bothered. Teach was sitting in his seat on the bridge, leaning heavily on one of the arm rest, his eyes bloodshot and his skin a pasty shade of grey. When I snapped to attention and saluted stiffly, he groaned "Force damn it, not so loud! What the hell do you want..." he squinted up at me for a few seconds, trying to focus "...Hawk?"

"Just reporting for duty general and checking if you had any specific instructions in regards to the prisoners today" I answered respectfully. In the armed forces it's expected of you to be reverently polite to any senior officer; even if they are a drunken psychopath.

"Yeah, kick one of them from me!" moaned Teach, clutching a hand to his brow in an attempt to alleviate his no doubt splitting headache.

"Sir" I inclined my head, saluted once again and then left. As I stalked away down the corridor I was silently fuming. Whoever had been the template for Teach and his idiots, he may have been built like a bull wampa, with the temperament and brain power to match, but he clearly hadn't been able to hold his drink any better than a rookie on leave. Honestly, I thought furiously to myself, if this was a proper Republic ship and if these were real troopers, I'd have had every man jack of them on latrine cleaning duty for the rest of their miserable lives! Why I doubted whether, with the crew and commander in their present state, they could fend off an attack from a gunship, let alone a damn Star Dest...I stopped dead in my tracks. A blinding realization flashed through my mind as if someone was firing off a Z-6 rotary blaster canon inside my skull. It seemed as if every one of Teach's men were either sleeping off their hangovers or were staggering around the ship wishing they were dead. Teach himself was no better, and possibly even worse, than the rest. Would I ever get a chance as good as this again? It was, for a craven coward like myself, an abominable decision to have to make. I would usually never put myself in harm's way under any circumstances. Alas on this occasion I had no other option; to do nothing would mean the end of my career, my reputation and my life. It was the last thing that I wanted to do but, with my innards turning to ice and lead, I turned and walked towards the nearest elevator. Stepping inside I took a deep breath and selected the detention level.

* * *

When I arrived in the cell block I noticed only a handful of guards on duty and most of these seemed in no better condition than the rest of Teach's crew. As I neared the control room, the room in which was housed the console that had the power to open and close every cell door in the place, I saw still fewer and fewer men on duty. However when I slid back the door and stepped into the control centre there was Corporal (I just couldn't think of the overgrown monster as a being a lieutenant) Gorax; seated by one of the monitors and staring blankly into space, as was his habit when not obeying a specific instruction. At first I hoped that he might be as drunk a Sith Lord, like the rest of them, but as he turned to me and punched the side of his own head (the closest the moron could ever get to a salute), I realized I was out of luck. Perhaps he hadn't attended the festivities the previous evening or maybe their simply wasn't enough alcohol in existence to overpower his enormous bulk. Either way he was as dangerous as he ever was and therefore this was no time for heroics. "Carry on cor... lieutenant" I said, returning his salute. As Gorax returning to gawping stupidly at the room's opposite wall, I quietly shut and locked the door behind me, and then began to slowly walk towards the great hunched figure that was squatting on a revolving chair designed for a being about a fifth of his size. As I approached Gorax I drew my DC-17 blaster, took a suppressor from its pouch on my belt, attached it over the barrel of the pistol and then aimed squarely at the middle of the giant's back. I had no wish to be disturbed whilst I was committing murder.

I know what you're thinking "what, attack a man from behind? Despicable cowardice, unsportsmanlike, what kind of a man would do such a thing_?_" To this I simply reply have you been actually _reading_ my memoires? If you ask me the best possible time to attack someone is either A) from behind or B) when they're down. Every planet in this galaxy is littered with the unmarked graves of honest fools who would have rather died than taken advantage of their foe when they were unprepared. Chivalry may not be dead, but many of those who have upheld its principles often are. Without giving him the slightest warning I pulled the trigger and shot the unsuspecting goliath three times in the back. The successive impacts propelled Gorax forward and out of his chair; he crashed into the console in front of him, before slowly collapsing to sprawl on the floor. I waited for a few seconds to see if the noise of my attack had attracted some of the few guards on duty; the shots themselves may have been silent, but Gorax's reaction to them certainly hadn't been. After a few nervous seconds I relaxed; it would seem I'd been overly cautious employing a suppressor at all, apparently the room's thick walls and opaque, reinforced safety glass made it virtually sound proof. Stepping forward I bent down to the colossal corpse, took the access key card from his belt and then walked across to the control console itself.

I was just standing before the computer terminal and preparing to slide both the keys into the machine; thereby allowing me to release the prisoner at the push of a button, when I detected a small sound behind me. I almost _felt_ it, rather than heard it. Turning I saw a sight that made my blood run cold and, through a throat that suddenly seemed as dry as a Geonosian crypt, I croaked "that's not possible!"

Rising from the floor like a mighty Dianoga from the depths of its swamp, Gorax slowly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He was bareheaded, allowing me a view of his hideous, misshapen face. His mismatched and usually dull eyes were alight with a burning, fiery hatred and anger, the like of which I have rarely seen. Peg-like teeth bared in an animal snarl he launched himself towards me. My usually intuitive survival instincts had been blunted by the sheer shock that the man I had presumed dead was in fact far from it, reacted too late. Bringing up my blaster to defend myself I only managed to fire off a single bolt, which scored a molten scar in his right pauldron, before the giant was on me. I was lifted clean off my feet by the collision; landing with a crash on my back on the floor, my pistol was knocked out of my hand and skidded away, disappeared in the shadow beneath a desk. Like a feral bull Gotiard, Gorax was on top of me in a second and began pounding my chest with his massive fists. If it hadn't been for my sturdy plastoid cuirass every one of my ribs would have been shattered like glass under boiling water in a matter of seconds. As it was I was beaten until my teeth were damn near shaken out of my skull and even the sturdy material of my breastplate eventually cracked. A couple more blows and my armour would have most likely split completely, and then I'd have been hammered to a pulp. It was at that moment, however, that I at last managed to draw my combat knife and thrust it upwards at my gargantuan assailant.

I drove the knife blade in under Gorax's left arm, at the vital weak spot present in all suits of clone (and later Imperial) armour; which is never protected by the rerebrace, pauldron or breastplate. With nothing to impede the thrust, save the material of the black body glove worn by all clones beneath their armour, the dagger bit deep. All six inches of the stiletto blade sank up to the hilt into the giant's flesh; eliciting a bellow of agony and rage. Such a wound would have disabled any normal man, but then again, so would three blaster bolts in the back. Picking me up by the throat, as if I was no heavier than a Jawa, Gorax hurled me bodily against the wall. With another howl of pain he ripped the knife from the wound, drew back his arm and let fly. Screaming in terror, I ducked convulsively as the blade hissed over my head and imbedded itself in the wall behind me, severing an electric cable as thick as your wrist. This had apparently supplied the power to the room's overhead lights, which immediately went out and plunged us both into total darkness. A moment later the emergency light strips flickered into life, bathing the room in a sickly red glow that, if possible, gave the situation a still more nightmarish quality than it already posed. As I rolled to my feet I made sure to give the crackling cable a wide birth; as it no doubt contained enough power to jump start a _Dreadnaught_ heavy cruiser.

Scrambling up I stood with my back against the wall; painfully aware how helpless I was in the face of so powerful an adversary without either my blaster or my combat knife. Unlike Commander Cody and, to lesser but still considerably extent, Captain Rex, I've never been much of a one for unarmed combat. I prefer a pistol or rifle, so that I may keep my foes further away than arms reach. However I doubt even such bastions of courage and fortitude as Cody and Rex could have suppressed a shiver of fear as Gorax slowly began to lumber towards them. He was now covered almost from head to foot in blood, with more of it leaking out between his teeth as he bared them in a feral growl, his eyes glowed like red hot coals in the furnace and his great hands, each the size of a damn Conjeni, were extended towards me, ready to rip my limps from their sockets. As I said, I don't think even the likes of my gallant comrades in arms Cody and Rex could have failed to remain unperturbed by such an apparition; however no doubt they would have risen above their fear and behaved like brave heroes and gentlemen. I on the other hand began screaming in terror; if Teach or any of his men were to come now I'd welcome them and beg for mercy. Maybe they'd shoot me or stick me in one of the cells; anything was preferable to death at the hands of this monstrous demon. Unfortunately the thick walls and safety glass of control centre, which I had been so pleasantly surprised by earlier, continued to block out all sounds of the battle raging within, including my howls of abject panic.

Backed into a corner and with nowhere left to run, like a terrified and exhausted fox cornered by the hounds at the end of a long hunt, I actually chose to fight and attempt to extend my life by a few more precious seconds, rather than give up and die. Making a desperate lunge at the giant towering over me, my fist connected with his jaw and bounced harmlessly away; I might as well have punched the Senate Building! With a contemptuous snarl, Gorax dealt me a smashing blow across the face with his tree trunk like forearm. As I lay sprawled at his feet, shell shocked by the impact, the terrible bad-batcher bent down and fastened his mighty hands around my throat. As he slowly began to choke the life out of me, I thrashed like a freshly caught fish on a line; my struggles utterly futile in the face of Gorax's indomitable strength. Pinned to the floor, with the my vision beginning to grow dark and my brain shutting down, I noticed out of the corner of my eye the still fizzing wire; cut from the wall by my own knife. With the last ounce of strength I possessed, I stretched out a faltering hand, seized the cable and plunged it into the gaping wound under Gorax's left arm.

The resulting shock catapulted me across the room and came within a hair's breadth of stopping my heart. However it was considerably worse for Gorax. He thrashed and convulsed violently on the floor, as bloody foam poured from his mouth and a terrible, in-human shriek rent the air. Despite his tormented writhing the electric cable remained firmly jammed in the gash beneath his arm. At last, with a final gurgling scream, Gorax collapsed and, besides a few spasms caused by the high voltage current still coursing through his body, he lay still. At last I climbed to my feet, leaning heavily on the nearest console. After retrieving my dropped blaster and wrenching my combat knife from the wall I walked cautiously towards the fallen giant. Having seen him already survive several wounds that would usually have killed a man many times over, I was at first intending to give him a final blaster bolt between the eyes to make certain that he would never rise again. However, after a cursory examination I realised that this would not be necessary. I don't wish to offend the delicate sensibilities of any of my more sensitive readers', so let it suffice to say that the results of 100,000 volts discharged into the human body for an extended period of time is far from pretty. Oh very well, for the morbidly curious amongst you; the eyes burst like ripe berries, flesh melts, the brain boils, causing the skull to explode, muscles contract and expand so violently that they are ripped from the bone, and hair and clothing burst into flames. Satisfied now? I did warn you, you know!

Averting my eyes from the grisly remains of the late and unlamented Gorax, I was on the point of inserting both the access cards into the terminal to release the prisoners when suddenly I hesitated. If I was to let them out now the game would be afoot in no uncertain terms and I would be throwing away any chance I had of gaining any further advantages against Teach's crew. Force knew they were armed to the teeth and built like tanks, every man jack of them, so we'd need all the help we could get! Ideally we'd want the sentries to leave their posts, and to find a way to disrupt, disorganize and distract Teach and his men. As I tried to conjure up a suitable stratagem my eyes fell upon the mangled corpse of the great giant who had so very nearly been the end of me. A thought occurred to me; there not only lay my co-prison warden, but also Teach's appointed quartermaster, armourer and banker. In regards to the latter Gorax had ended up in charge of an extremely impressive collection of credits. The combined wealth of camp and ship had come to perhaps a fifty thousand credits, but then Teach had come into the possession of the five million credit ransom for the clone prisoners, provided by Commander Cody. The bad-batch general had turned into something of a miser and loved that pile of golden ingots more than his own grandmother (metaphorically speaking of course).

* * *

In a second I had made up my mind; quickly I left the control room, strode away out of the prison block and into a waiting elevator. Taking this to the deck on which the small storage room that had been adopted by Teach as the site of his credit deposit, I used key taken from Gorax's belt to unlock the thick steel door. The chamber within was not overly remarkable; perhaps twenty feet square, one wall piled high with metal crates, the other mostly taken up with a number of monitors and one fairly large air intake vent set at about head height. Mostly unremarkable, that is except for the small mountain of golden credits chips and ingots heaped in the middle of the floor. Just over five million in credits, when you see it in the flesh so to speak, is not as impressive as it would no doubt appear in the holodramas; but it is still nevertheless most certainly enough to be getting along with. Taking only a moment to gaze in rapture at the diminutive fortune before me, enough to allow me to retire and live a life of blissful peace, I set to work. As they say in popular fiction, '_it was for me but the work of a moment_' to grab the air vent cover, wrench it from the wall and then start to pile fistful after fistful of credits into the dark space beyond. The air vent took a sharp right turn after only going back into the wall for about a foot; meaning that I could conceal Teach's riches completely from view around the corner, whilst not having to place them somewhere that would be difficult to access at a later date.

Having hidden every last golden block I replaced the vent cover and then double timed it to the bridge. I paused before I activated the door to the flight-deck, took a deep breath and then punched the access pad and burst into the room shouting loud enough to wake the dead. Since I had last visited it a few more crewmen had drifted in, but it was still less crowded than usual. Teach was exactly where I had left him; sprawled in the captain's chair. When I ran in yelling blue murder every man present started violently in surprise and the general himself cried out in angry alarm. "What in the bloody Force's name do you think you're playing at Hawk?" he bellowed, clutching a hand to his forehead.

"General Tea..." I began.

"Keep your damn voice down will you?" Teach half growled, half groaned.

"Very well sir" I replied calmly. "I believe you have entrusted are store of credits to the care of Lieutenant Gorax?"

"Yeah, so?" he asked angrily. Suddenly a flash of worry crossed his ugly face "why, don't you reckon they're safe with him?"

"Oh I'm sure they're perfectly safe, wherever he and his escape pod are" I said with a polite smile.

The effect was as immediate and sudden as if I'd upended a bucket full of ice cold water over Teach's head. His hangover vanishing instantly, he leapt from his seat and screamed "WHAT?"

"I saw our misshapen mutual friend purloining the credits myself. That he would make his escape aboard one of the ship's escape pods is merely an assumption on my part".

"And why in the name of the bloody Force didn't you stop him!" screamed Teach, turning a remarkable shade of purple.

"Well sir, he is your second in command; I did not wish to overreach my authority. He might have been acting on your orders" I explained laconically.

"You damn Fett clones and your protocol!" Teach snarled. Turning to one of his men he barked "have any of the escape pods been launched yet?"

"No boss" came the reply.

"Then lock them all down now and then follow me. We're going to tear this ship apart until we find him and my...I mean _our_ money! I want every man on it!"

As Teach and his bridge officers piled out of the door and began sprinting away down the corridor; I slowly grinned to myself. In our noble general's own words; phase one and two were completed, now on to phase three. Teach's crew would now proceed to turn the _Rapacity_ inside out in their search for the missing trooper and the credits he had supposedly stolen. The only two places that were almost guaranteed not to be searched would be the prison control centre and the improvised bank; as, they would no doubt reason, Gorax would hardly be likely to go to ground where he was supposedly to be or to hide the wealth he had taken where it had originally been kept. In my experience people very rarely see what is directly under their noses; if you want to conceal something there is no better place than in plain sight. Once the running footsteps of Teach and his men had faded into silence I scuttled from the bridge and made my way back to the prison block. The few guards that had been present when I had last walked through the area had now vanished. Apparently the news that over five million credits had gone walkabout had got around. Sliding open the door to the control room I averted my eyes from the mortal remains of Gorax and then approached the main computer terminal.

The time had come at last. Muttering aloud "here goes nothing" I inserted both my own and Gorax's access key cards. A red light on the console changed from a forbidding red to an encouraging green. I was now able to open at will any or all of the cells aboard the _Rapacity_. Generally it was the practice for the guards to only ever open a few cells at a time; therefore only releasing a small and controllable number of inmates. On no account would every prisoner aboard ever be set loose at once. That is unless a prison riot was exactly what one wanted. At the press of a button each of the red energy force barriers that were keeping the captives in check flickered and died. When I stepped out of the control centre it was to find the corridor slowly filling up as men hesitantly and cautiously stepped out of their cells. As it gradually dawned upon them that they were all free and that there was not a guard in sight they began to murmur. Within seconds the babble of voices and had risen to a crescendo of confused celebration; that is until the bellow of an authoritative voice restored some semblance of discipline.

"Order, Order! Officers to me!" shouted Commander Cody, striding forward with Captain Rex at his shoulder. From the crowd emerged Commander Piper, an ARC trooper captain, a lieutenant wearing the light grey helmet of an artilleryman and a handful of others. Looking around at the assembled men and then at me, Cody said "this is your doing I presume Captain Hawk?"

"That's rights right sir. I've got Teach and his boys running amok all over the ship in search of their precious credits; which I may have _accidentally_ mislaid. We must take advantage of this confusion and make for the armoury. Unless we can get the prisoners well armed we'll all be rounded up as soon as Teach realizes what's going on" I explained as quickly as I could. Time was after all of the essence.

Cody seemed to agree both with my plan and my feelings that dawdling would certainly prove fatal to this undertaking. "Right I want the men organized into squads as quickly as possible, under you officers, and then we..." the commander suddenly broke off as several new figures pushed their way through to the front of the throng and marched forward to join the group of Republic officers standing around Cody. They were Neimoidians; Colonel Lamon, Lieutenant Veen, Captain Vrawn and a few others, many of which I vaguely recognized.

There was a long, awkward silence and then Colonel Lamon said in his usual polite, unassuming voice (which nevertheless managed to carry to the very back of the crowd) "my men, and those of Captain Vrawn's crew, are at your disposal commander. Today we fight a common enemy; to save all our lives and to strike a blow against pirates, mutineers, liars and traitors everywhere. Will you accept our aid?"

Thanks to Cody's helmet, as he stood stock still for a few long seconds, I could not tell what was going through his mind. However he suddenly saluted formally and said "we accept with pleasure sir". Well, I remember thinking, I never thought I'd live to see the day; Neimoidians and clones fighting together as allies. "As Captain Hawk has pointed out, our first objective must be the ship's armoury" continued Cody, as if nothing remarkable had happened. "Once we have armed the men we can go on the offensive".

"Captain Vrawn sir, perhaps you are the best qualified amongst us to guide the troops to the arsenal?" I suggested politely. This was of course complete rubbish; any one of the Neimoidian crewmen could have done the job as well, or at least very nearly, and more to the point I could have done so myself. After all I had been living on the _Rapacity_ for a considerable span of time by this point and knew the way around it like the back of my hand. However I had no intention of taking point and being rewarded by a blaster bolt through the brainpan! Let someone else have the pleasure and the privilege.

The tall alien captain bowed "I would be delighted". There you see, what did I tell you.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** The battle to reclaim the _Rapacity_.

The expression "drunk as a Sith Lord" is of my own invention and based on the actual expression "drunk as a lord".

I'm afraid that I don't know whether or not a blaster can be fitted with a suppressor/silencer. However as blasters, according to the laws of physics, should make no noise at all anyway, I decided that it was no great leap of the imagination.

If any of my readers doubt whether a man, no matter how tough, could survive being shot three times in the back with a blaster, then the Author simply points to the case of the Russian priest and mystic Grigori Rasputin. Rasputin was shot _four_ times, heavily beaten with clubs and a length of chain, stabbed, given enough poison to kill five men and finally rolled up in a carpet and jammed under the ice beneath a bridge. He died of drowning, rather than the poison or his wounds. The human form can sometimes prove very durable.

The manner of Corporal/Lieutenant Gorax's demise, via a high voltage electrical cable, was partly inspired by that of Oddjob in the film _Goldfinger_.


	9. Counter Mutiny

**Chapter 9: Counter Mutiny **

* * *

As Cody, Rex and few of the other officers were organizing the motley collection of troopers and guardsmen into squads; I stood a little apart and awaited my marching orders. It was whilst I was twiddling my thumbs that I suddenly became aware of someone leaning against the wall beside me. Turning I saw Colonel Lamon, who proceeded to give me one of his cheery grins, accompanied by a wink. "This looks like being a bit of excitement, eh captain?"

"It certainly does" I answered, trying to sound happy at the prospect.

The old Neimoidian looked still more delighted at the idea of the coming battle (he was cut from the same cloth as the likes of Rex that one). "I have to say Hawk; fighting alongside you will be an honour that I never thought that I might have. I only hope that my old bones have enough vigour in them that I will not disgrace myself and my regiment".

The thought that an old veteran such as Lamon should consider it an _honour_ to fight at my side, a self-confessed worthless coward, was truly frightening. "Well...umm...thank you sir" I said at last, rather lamely.

Knowing full well that every moment we delayed increased the chance that one of Teach's men might, whilst making his way down to the prison block, realize what was occurring and raise the alarm; we began to move out. As the assorted soldiers double-timed it along corridors and down passageways towards the armoury, with yours truly trying to remain as near as possible to the centre of the formation as possible, my apprehension grew. Surely our collective luck couldn't hold much longer? As it happened I was right, although I took no pleasure in the fact. It was just as our advance guard, accompanied by Captain Vrawn, turned into a fresh corridor that I heard a cry of surprise, the crack of a blaster rifle, a good deal of shouting and then silence. When I at last turned the corner myself I was confronted by an interesting scene; two of the bad-batch clones lying dead, a Neimoidian nursing a blaster wound to the shoulder and an ARC trooper, a clone pilot and an burly NGB guardsman fighting over who should get the dead men's rifles.

I hesitating to break up the quarrel; not wishing to show favouritism to my own men by ruling that they should be the ones to claim the recently discarded weapons, thereby possibly causing resentment amongst the Neimoidians. However if I ruled that the alien guardsmen should have preferential treatment over the clones it could possibly start the rumour that I had a liking for Separatists; something that, given my current position, I could ill afford. Thankfully the potentially difficult situation was taken out of my hands. A moment later Captain Vrawn strode forward and snapped "drop those guns soldiers; let's see some discipline here shall we?" He may have been their natural enemy but the voice of authority did the job all the same; the troopers immediately let the DC-15As fall to the ground. Naturally the Neimoidian obeyed his superior without question. "Right, you and you, arm yourselves and then take point" Vrawn said, pointing to the clones. "Sergeant Melkner; get Private Dinser to a medic to see about that shoulder. You'll have first choice of the weapons in the armoury I assure you".

The Neimoidian NCO saluted "right you are captain" the momentary flash of hostility passing from his face to be replaced by one of eager anticipation of the moment when he could have his pick of any instrument of death and destruction from the ship's weapons store.

"Well done captain, that could have been awkward" I said quietly to Vrawn, as the ARC trooper and pilot eagerly grabbed up the rifles and trotted forward to secure the next intersection.

"Your clones are hot headed and eager for action, no different from my guardsmen. It is only a matter of knowing the right thing to say at the right time" said the Neimoidian captain casually. After the brief flare of activity the rest of the journey to the _Rapacity_'s armoury passed thankfully without incident. It cannot have been more than a few minutes before our ragtag army was outfitting itself with every conceivable weapon that it could get its hand on, but at the time it felt more like hours.

"Right" said Cody, cradling a DC-15S carbine lovingly in the crook of his arm "now that's more like it".

"You got that right!" grinned Rex, with a brace of blaster pistols in his hands, and looking happier than I'd seen him since Felucia.

Cody once again called together his unlikely collection of officers and mapped out his plan. "Counting the Neimoidians we outnumber the traitors by, I would estimate, a margin of almost four to one. Those are good odds, made still better by Captain Hawk's misdirection. With Teach's men distracted and divided I think we can safely divide our own forces and hunt them down. A full scale offensive should take them completely off guard".

The idea of pursing a small army of furious psychopaths through the tangled, labyrinthine bowls of a Separatist destroyer was, as far as I was concerned, about as appealing as performing a prostate exam on a particularly bad tempered rancor. True we might well get the jump on them at first, but after the initial shock had passed we'd find ourselves engaged in savage tunnel fighting that promised to be as brutal and bloody as any of the battles I'd had the misfortune to end up in. No sir, I'd done my bit; I'd rescued the prisoners and damn near had my head torn off by that giant monster Gorax. No one could say I was a collaborator after my, admittedly forced, acts of what would no doubt later be construed as heroism. However I wanted to be alive to enjoy my narrow escape from disgrace and execution, and that meant not touching Cody's vile battle strategy with a fifty foot lightsaber. "Excellent plan commander" I said with feigned martial zeal "I would like to volunteer to lead the force that assaults and captures the bridge".

Cody eyed me with deepening respect (he had removed him helmet during the mission briefing, allowing me to see his expression). "That's going to be the most dangerous assignment Hawk".

I saluted crisply "yes sir; I feel I owe these mutinous dogs a thing or two".

Cody shook his head in admiration, the thought '_is there no end to this man's bravery_' obviously running through his mind. "Very well Hawk, take two squads and move out. Good luck captain, may the Force be with you".

"Thank you sir" I said, before setting off, twenty or so mismatched soldiers falling in behind me, towards the _Rapacity_'s bridge. Yes, I thought happily to myself as I jogged along, thank you sir indeed. Little did dear old, honest Cody know that part of my distraction had been to clear the command deck of the ship entirely. At most we might encounter a few bridge staff and probably not even that. Then, whilst Cody, Rex and company were off fighting savage hand-to-hand battles in pursuit of Teach's bad-batch crew, I could sit safe and snug and wait for the dust to settle. In the event of the worst case scenario, that when Cody heard that the bridge had been easily cleared requested that I entered the fray elsewhere; it would be a simple matter to dawdle along the way. Even if dragging my feet was not an option, for example if I was leading a band of valiant troopers and guardsmen who might look askance at me for wasting time, I would still have missed the opening stages of the battle. Yes, from every angle my devious little scheme for saving my skin for the thousandth time was foolproof. Well...almost anyway.

* * *

As we moved out I tried my best to appear to be both leading the charge and simultaneously keeping as many soldiers as possible between myself and any potential incoming fire. This may sound nigh on impossible but believe me, to the experienced coward, it is merely a matter of practice. Over my communicator I could monitor the combat situation as officers and troopers gave regular reports; "_approaching objective now_", "_targets sighted, moving into position_", "_squad seven in position, awaiting further orders_", "_a small force of hostiles engaged and naturalized_" and so on. As an, unfortunately, very experienced solider I was able to multi-task with ease; both focussing on my immediate surroundings and keeping an eye (or rather an ear) on the wider tactical situation. Although most of the other teams seemed to have by this point run into trouble, we had yet to see hide-nor-hair of the enemy. Although this seemed to disappoint my companions I was secretly overjoyed that my plan seemed to be working perfectly. Talking of my men I suppose now is as good a time as any to relate to you the varied selection of warriors I had under my command for the taking of the ship's flight deck. Two squads, equalling twenty men; the Neimoidians Lieutenant Veen (a chap I just never seemed to stop running into), Sergeant Melkner and three guardsmen. For the clones there were nine troopers, two pilots, an artilleryman, an ARC sergeant and Corporal Whistler of my own legion. Last and probably least was one of the inexplicable Senate commandos; conspicuous in his blue armour and crested helmet (as I said earlier I haven't the slightest idea how one of his sort managed to get himself captured; perhaps he tripped over his own arrogance during a diplomatic mission, knocked himself out and woke up in a cell).

It was only as we activated the thick steel doors of the bridge and ran inside that we encountered our first hostiles. Although the room was almost deserted a couple of the bad-batch crewmen were frantically running from console to console, no doubt doing all they could to hamper our troops. As we entered one of them looked up, swore and went for his gun. Not for the first time I was grateful that of all my many falsehoods I am at least a good shot. Like lightning I drew, aimed and fired my blaster pistol; the bolt striking him cleanly between the eyes and splattering the wall behind him with the contents of his skull. The other traitors were dispatched almost immediately; outnumbered as they were and taken by complete surprise. Corporal Whistler kicked the prone body of one of the bad-batchers (partly to make sure that he wasn't shamming and probably by way of a little payback) and then asked "was that it?"

Trying to sound both taken aback and rather disappointed I replied "it would seem so". Smiling in the privacy of my helmet at my own fiendish genius for poltroonery I activated my communicator and reported "bridge seized Commander Cody, securing position". Not, you will note, '_awaiting further instructions_'; I wasn't about to put ideas into Cody's head.

At first there was no reply even though I could hear that the com line was open; all that I could make out was the hissing and crackling of blaster fire, explosions, screaming and shouted orders. However, at last, Cody snarled "good...show Hawk. Hold your...pos...position. Fortify. Enemy forces...inbound".

Despite Cody having to stop every other word to bellow a command or being cut off by a deafening explosion, I got the gist of the message and it chilled me to my very soul. "Repeat!" I shouted, hoping that I sounded less panic stricken than I felt. I prayed that I had misheard the garbled communication; no such luck.

"Most of...Teach's forces...subdued. But a significant detachment...have broke away and...making their way towards...the bridge. Hold them off until...relieved".

When my beleaguered brain had processed the vile, disjointed order I glanced around at my men. I was greeted with expressions of stern determination, steely resolve, righteous fury and any number of other noble emotions that I've never got within a bloody light year of! I've always thought that it is the ultimate irony that for every time my cowardice has saved my life there are plenty of occasions when it has actually resulted in me being shoved back into harm's way. As I mentioned earlier in this portion of my memoires many are the times that if I was the damned hero everyone believes me to be I'd actually have saved myself from considerable amounts of risk and danger. I don't know if the Force did watch out for me during my long years of active service, but if so it was only because it wished to continue to laugh at my expense. My throat suddenly felt painfully dry; but at last I managed to say, in the closest thing I could get to a commanding confident voice, "seal the doors and prepare to repel incoming hostiles".

With commendable speed the clones and Neimoidians (and the Senate Commando) threw together a barricade of hastily shifted steel benches, chairs and anything else that was to hand. Meanwhile Lieutenant Veen sat down at one of the bridge's consoles and activated the doors emergency locking mechanisms. Turning to me he said "these protocols are designed to seal of the bridge when the ship is under attack by a heavy bombardment of enemy fire. They are almost impossible to hack or override, and will not be deactivated by, for example, a loss of power or extreme heat. Small arms fire will be utterly useless in attempting to breach our position I assure you. That's the best I can do captain".

As my small ad hoc force took up defensive positions around the flight deck I could hear the sounds of muffled shouting from beyond the solid enough looking doors. "Well done Veen. Hopefully that will hold them and we need only wait for Cody and company to show up, and catch Teach's lot in-between a rock and a hard place. Let's just pray that they don't have any..." My words were cut off by an almighty _thump_, like a giant punching the flank of an AT-TE. The deck plates beneath my feet trembled, and the thick metal doors crumpled and bent inwards as if they were made of nothing sturdier than rubber. "Rocket launchers" I finished morosely.

The clone artilleryman pricked up his ears and said, in the same tone of voice that an ornithologist might employ when asked to identify an interesting bird song, "hmmm an E-60R I reckon; quite a distinctive hiss before impact".

As I was in the act of opening my mouth to snarl something far from polite I was silenced by a second explosion. The missile connected with the already heavily damaged doors and reduced them to flying shards and shrapnel. A steel splinter the size of a broadsword missed me by inches and instead struck one of the clone troopers standing behind me in the chest; impaling him to the wall. He thrashed, shrieking in agony, for a few seconds until one of his comrades did the merciful thing and put him out of his misery with a well placed blaster bolt. To you civvies this may seem shocking, but believe me the number of soldiers I've seen beg their friends and comrades to end their suffering is beyond count. Sometimes granting a fatally wounded man a quick death is the only thing that you can do to end their pain. Dear me I do believe that I'm becoming rather morbid; let us hastily return to the matter at hand.

Clambering to my feet, after having hurled myself behind the nearest computer terminal, I watched as my men, who had all done much the same as I, attempted to resume their positions covering the entrance. However, even before the smoke had cleared, their came an ear splitting battle cry as a horde of bad-batch traitors poured through the shattered doorway. The defenders managed to get off a few ragged volleys, scything down the first few ranks of the roaring host, before they were right on top of us. It was at times such as this that I wished that, like so many others who hold my rank, I favoured a brace of pistols. At that moment accuracy was meaningless; all that mattered was heavy and sustained fire. Thankfully I once again noted the phenomena I had witnessed during Teach's attack on the Republic delegation at the prisoner exchange; namely that as soon as the rebellious troopers got close their savage bloodlust seemed to override all tactical sense. Instead of gunning me down, man after man instead simply chose to charge, howling murderously and seeking to engage me in melee. Although calm was the last emotion I was feeling at that moment of chaos I tried with every fibre of my being not to completely panic and lose my head; keeping up disciplined fire was the only thing that would save my precious hide from being ripped to bloody shreds.

Although Teach's brutes had seemed intimidating and threatening when I had seen them in action during the various battles to overthrow the Neimoidians, never before had they seemed anything like as monstrous as they did in that furious attack. Each man, as he charged bellowing towards me, seemed to be more like bestial demons than anything else; frothing at the mouth with insane hatred and teeth bared ready to tear out my throat. Screaming in terror I brought down one trooper after another; five I think, but it was almost impossible to tell at the time or looking back now. On my left, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the ARC trooper and the Neimoidian sergeant fighting back to back against a dozen or so attackers, whilst on my right I glimpsed one of the pilots disappearing under a furious scrum. The Senate Commando and one of Teach's men were writhing together on the floor, at each other's throats. Meanwhile Lieutenant Veen had clambered up on top of one of the tall computer terminals and was using his blaster rifle as a club to hack down all those who tried to mountaineer up to his position to dislodge him. These tableaus barely registered at the time; I was so focussed on surviving the next few desperate seconds. I had just blown half the face off a great bearded bastard and I was swinging my gun barrel back around to line up a shot on my next attacker when I was suddenly struck by what felt like an A-A5 truck going at full speed.

My attacker shoulder tackled me and we both went crashing to the deck, kicking and slashing at each other amidst the forest of legs as clones, Neimoidians and bad-batchers savaged each other on every side. By some miracle I hadn't dropped my blaster pistol and I eventually managed to get off a single bolt which grazed the left hand side of his helmet. With a bellow of animal fury my assailant seized my wrist in a vice-like grip and began smashing my hand against the base of a control console. At last, with a yelp of pain as I felt the bone of one of my fingers brake, I released my hold on the weapon. Now that he had disarmed me the assailant could really set about his dreadful business. Despite my best and panic stricken efforts he caught me blow after blow against my head and breastplate. For the second time in the last few hours I felt as if I was in a till-the-death cage match with an enraged gamorrean; although this man lacked the brute strength of Gorax, he was still as tough as an ox and considerably more skilled in hand to hand combat than either my former attacker or myself. At last, when I lay battered and bloodied, barely able to raise a shattered finger in my defence, the man pulled off his damaged helmet and snarled down at me in furious triumph. It was Teach himself.

His face near defied description; an expression so manic, so full of hideous insanity and seething bloodlust, as to appear be to utterly inhuman. Every blood vessel in his eyes appeared to have ruptured; such was his rage, causing his eyes to resemble those of a Duros more than anything else. Blood streamed between his gritted teeth; although whether this was because one of my own ineffective blows had struck home or because he was so lost in his rage that he had nearly bitten off his own tongue (something I saw a man do on one occasion; not something I wish to see a again). "You, you, you _FILTH_"! he shrieked at last. "You traitor, betrayer, son of Sith whore, you did this, _YOU_!" Under other circumstances I might have pointed out that this rather came under the heading of the pot calling the kettle black; but as I was seconds from having my face smashed in my thoughts were elsewhere. He raised his blaster carbine high over his head in both hands like an executioners axe; clearly intending to stave in my skull rather than opting to employ his weapons primary and intended function. "Die now and rot in the black Void!"

Just as the butt of the DC-15S was hurtling towards my head the barrel of a Neimoidian blaster musket appeared seemingly out of nowhere and deflected Teach's blow aside. The leader of the bad-batchers snapped his head up, snarling, to see who had dared intercede on my behalf. "You and I have unfinished business lad" said Colonel Lamon coldly. It was then, as I lay groggily on the deck of the bridge, that I suddenly became aware that there seemed to have been a large influx of clone troopers and Neimoidian guardsmen; meaning that Teach's men were now vastly outnumbered.

A man who was not quite as committed to being a deranged psychopath would, at this point, probably have decided to call it a day. Not so the self styled _Admiral_ Teach. With a roar like a bull wampa spotting his mate being promiscuous with the male from the next cave, Teach charged Lamon. The old colonel deftly deflected the force of the rush and, as the heavily built man barrelled past, extended the long barrel of his weapon once again, causing Teach to trip spectacularly. He was only down for a second however; like a great jungle cat he sprang to his feet in an instant and charged again. A clone trooper bared his path and was dealt a smashing blow across the helmet with the fearsome carbine. Teach then reversed the weapon and fired a flurry of bolts on full auto which cut down a pair of Lamon's guardsmen who had rushed to their commander's defence. All this had taken place in less than ten seconds and Lamon, having had his blaster musket almost jarred from his hands by the force of Teach's leg crashing into it, was still in the act of brining up his weapon to protect himself. But I could see he was going to be too late; in a heartbeat the crazed madman would pull the trigger again and cut down my saviour where he stood and, far more importantly, I would surely be next. However, as Teach was in the act of firing, he staggered. He stood swaying for a moment, his face changing from one of incensed anger to one of mild surprise. Slowly he looked down at the blaster hole punched clean through his breastplate, directly over where the heart lay beneath. Blood did not fountain from the wound as one might have expected; instead a dark cherry red stream trickled down the former sergeant's camouflaged green plastoid cuirass. Teach's carbine slowly slipped from his grasp as he raised his right hand to the hole from which his lifeblood was flowing; before bringing his fingers, slick with the crimson sticky liquid, up to his eye level. The leader of the traitors at first simply starred, his mouth opening and shutting as if he were about to speak, before his eyes rolled back into his head and he toppled backwards, like a felled tree, and lay sprawled his full length upon the deck.

Captain Rex lowered his pistol and said simply "You shoot to kill, you better hit the heart."

* * *

Even though I felt as if my head had been stamped on repeatedly by an AT-RT I managed at last to sit up and cast my eyes around the battered bridge. I couldn't see a single bad-batch traitor who wasn't either dead or stunned; leaving the ship's flight deck firmly in clone and Neimoidian hands. Talking of which one of the latter clapped me on the back as I was standing shakily, putting my weight on a nearby work surface to prevent myself blacking out. "Jolly good show, eh what?" grinned Lamon cheerfully.

Feeing that I was unable to formulate a suitable response to such a question I remained silent; instead I chose to watch the ordered chaos on the bridge. Somehow Commander Cody and Captain Vrawn, chiefly by virtue of shouting until they were blue in the face, were dispatching a detachment of their combined forces to clear away the dead, wounded and prisoners, whilst others were being tasked with monitoring the ships systems via computer consoles and terminals. It was fortunate that the two commanding officers chose to do the latter, because it was at that moment that a clone trooper shouted excitedly "sir, a ship's just emerged from hyperspace directly behind us! She's hailing us over the coms unit; what are your orders?"

Although the trooper was clearly addressing Cody, the commander had the good grace to glance at the Neimoidian captain for his opinion. "Put it through to my private channel" said Vrawn quickly "Commander Cody, would you kindly accompany me?"

Colonel Lamon, Captain Rex and I, along with many other troopers and guardsmen standing around the bridge, watched in silence as the two men conferred over the captain private communication station. Although I could hear nothing of what passed between Cody, Vrawn and whoever was on the other end of the line, it seemed to be a most interesting conversation. At last, when the clone and Neimoidian terminated the communication, they walked back into the centre of the room; each obviously in a state of high excitement. "Gentlemen" said Cody in a loud clear voice that carried throughout the bridge "that was the _Resolute_". As you can imagine this sparked an immediate uproar of conversation; which Cody was only able to make himself heard through with some difficulty. "Captain Vrawn and I have managed to convince Admiral Yularen that we are not an immediate threat. However he will understandably be wary as he moves in to dock with us so let us all try to do nothing that might cause him alarm. Clear?"

As every man on the bridge discussed the, at least to some of us, not entirely unexpected arrival of the _Resolute_; I found a deserted chair and took the weight of my feet. It made me shudder to think just how close a run thing the last act of this particular episode of my unsightly career had come to dropping me in the deep end in no uncertain terms. If I had delayed in releasing Teach's prisoners by even a few hours it might well have been too late. Yularen would have captured the _Rapacity_ all by himself and I would have been left high and dry; attempting to explain to the galaxy as a whole why I had done nothing to aid my friends and comrades when they needed me most. But in the end it had all turned out, well not exactly for the best (in the best case scenario I wouldn't have had seven different shades of bantha dung beaten out me on several occasions), but at least I was still alive. And when all's said and done that's all a coward like me can really ask for.

Captain Rex approached me and leaned against the bank of computers, saying, with an almost incredulous shake of the head "well Hawk I reckon that next time we're on leave I'm buying the drinks".

Still feeling more than slightly shaky I replied "thanks old friend, after this I think I could use a drink; better still a free one".

Rex laughed "you've saved my life for what feels like the hundredth time, not to mention those of a couple of hundred other clones and these Seps. Perhaps I owe you more than just a couple of measly drinks! Tell you what you can be godfather to my first kid, that fair?"

Despite having been recently nearly battered to death I couldn't help laughing. Every clone knew that families and happily ever after stories were for those who hadn't been born in a test tube. "It's a deal Rex; I'll hold you too it". It was just a joke at the time; who would have guessed that now, twenty years later, I'd be the godfather to not one, but several, of Rex's little brood. I must admit that I dote on them; the combination of Human and Togruta DNA make charming children. I've always said it's a funny old galaxy.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Next time: a final epilogue.

The line from Rex "_you shoot to kill, you better hit the heart_" is a movie quote from the 1964 spaghetti western _A Fistful of Dollars_.


	10. Epilogue

**Chapter 10: Epilogue **

* * *

Padawans Ahsoka Tano and Barriss Offee stared at me with open mouths and eyes as round as saucers. The two young Jedi, Captain Rex and I were all sitting in a nice little bar that used to stand not ten minutes walk from the Jedi Temple. After I had finished explaining what had happened to me after my capture on Felucia, Rex had taken up the narrative for the latter half of the story; as he felt that I would inevitably be far too modest. Barriss at last whispered in an awe struck voice "wow".

"Did you really kill a _giant_ Hawk?" asked Ahsoka eagerly.

I smiled leisurely "well I don't know if you'd call him a giant, commander, but I..."

"Of course he did!" bellowed an excited Rex. "I saw the body with my own eyes in the prison control centre; must have been all of nine feet tall, no ten!"

I chuckled indulgently "hardly, eight at the most".

"And you saved all their lives" said Barriss reverently. "What happened to the Neimoidians?"

I shrugged "we all decided that it was time to call it a day. Captain Rex, Commander Cody, the rest of the Republic prisoners and I all hopped a lift over to the _Resolute_ and set a course for Coruscant. The Seps resumed control of the _Rapacity_ and went their own way. Very polite and gentlemanly all round really". And so it had been. It was one of the rare movements of spontaneous camaraderie between a Republic and a Separatist army in the entire war. It briefly did wonders for foreign policy; that is to say both sides stopped ripping each other's throats out for about five minutes and hinted that there was a faint, unlikely, probably not going to happen, don't know even why we're mentioning it really, possibility of perhaps whispering about peace. Nothing came of it of course. A week or so later it transpired that there was some sort of Separatist conspiracy in the Senate, or some such rubbish; which naturally had the hardliners baying for blood. But the point is that it _could_ have been peace, and during the Clone War _could_ was about as much as you could ever hope for.

Before the iron curtain of civil war went back up and it was once more a state crime and a treasonable offense to consort with the enemy, I received a communication from Colonel Lamon telling me the news. Apparently his nephew Lieutenant Veen had made a full recovery after the battle on the bridge, having taken a blaster bolt in the shoulder. I came to rather like that young man; he was a useful chap to have around. Mind you I never did figure him out. I'm generally a fairly good judge of character (it comes of being such a disreputable scoundrel myself), but that lad threw me. He was occasionally as brave as an ARC trooper (well a _normal_ ARC trooper anyway), but then at times he seemed as eager as I would have been in his place to save his own skin. Neimoidians are a hard bunch to fathom. Captain Vrawn had his ship refitted and rearmed, and decided to become a front line fleet captain once more. Apparently he'd had more than enough of ferrying POWs around and I can't say that I blame him. Lastly Lamon thanked me on behalf of the Separatist government for telling him where Teach's stash of credits could be found. He said that it was a little light by a few hundred credits, but that on a ship crewed by pirates and mutineers that was only to be expected. Please bear in mind that I'm now an old man and my memory is not what it once was; perhaps I may have pockets a few fistfuls of golden credit chips just before leaping onto a shuttle bound for the Republic Star Destroyer, and perhaps I didn't. Looking back now I _really_ can't seem to recall...

Those few of Teach's savages who had been taken alive were tried for treason and sentenced to death by firing squad. They were lucky if you ask me. The military tribunal ruled that, as they were experimental troopers, malfunctions such as the one that had occurred were only to be expected. If they had been regular Fett clones, or more pertinently if I had been tried before the same court, they would certainly have decided to let the Kaminoans have poke around inside our skulls to see exactly where the problem lay. I hated Teach and every one of his men with a passion; but even I, low and devious though I am, wouldn't have wished such an end on them. At least let a traitor die like a man and a soldier, not like a malfunctioning piece of machinery to be sent back to the manufacturer for analysis.

I took a deep draught of my drink and looked around the Coruscant bar. My little misadventure had very nearly had me blasted to bloody offal by droids, lynched by traitors, murdered by an overgrown mutant, clubbed to death by a raving lunatic and finally might well have ended with me being tried as a defector! I'd fought in harder battles and endured more nightmarish situations; but off the top of my head I couldn't for the life of me think of an episode of my career in which I had been forced to walk through a more lethal minefield of treachery, intrigue and savage politics. Still, I conceded as I drained my glass and caught sight of a very spritely little Pantoran barmaid with a coquettish smile, things hadn't turned out all that badly. There was talk of me being awarded a Chancellor's Service Medal for courage above and beyond that expected in the face of the enemy (if you can believe that!) and Rex was buying the drinks. I slid my empty glass across the table towards my fellow captain and said with a grin "another of the same Rex, if you don't mind". Yes, I thought cheerfully to myself as Rex called for the next round and the saucy barmaid gave me a wink that suggested interesting things in both our futures; all in all not bad at all.

* * *

The End

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

I hope you enjoyed this latest edition in the _Cowardly Clone_ series. I'm sorry that it has taken me so long to finish it. Thanks a lot to all my reviewers for their comments, advice, questions and feedback; they were all very helpful and encouraging.


End file.
